The Most Interesting Man in the World
by JustineR
Summary: Co-written with Jancat10. Bingley and Darcy enjoy a bit of brandy while sharing their thoughts on love, life and women. Bingley starts to see Darcy in a new light over the course of five significant evenings for the men in P&P. Five parts. Darcy/Elizabeth, just in case you were wondering.
1. Part I: Certum Est Quia Impossible Est

_A/N: We have often wondered why Bingley relied on Darcy's judgment in all things. And of course everyone wants to know what Darcy did and thought between Netherfield and the end of his separation from Elizabeth. So we thought we might explore a moment during that time period from Bingley's POV, which we'd never read much of before, to shed some light on both questions._

**The Most Interesting Man in the World**

**Part I: Certum Est Quia Impossible Est**

** (It Is Certain Because It Is Impossible)**

By Jancat10 and JustineR

It was not just Darcy who was an awful object on a Sunday night. London in January was a big fat yawn, and Charles Bingley knew exactly who deserved the blame. Darcy. Caroline. And maybe Jane Bennet. No! He would not think of _her_. He needed to focus on the here and now, the _here _being Darcy's study and the _now _being this moment when he had nothing whatsoever to do.

Yes, London was dull, dull, dull.

There were no girls, no clubs, no horses, cockfights or pugilistic contests to catch the fancy of a restless young man. Bingley had often imagined himself as a man about town, a well-liked man who knew how to enjoy himself and the amusements afforded by a fat purse and the dropping of the right name. He liked to think that he, Charles Horatio Bingley, could lead the merry life that Darcy rejected in favor of his dusty books and boring ancient maps. Bloody maps. Who knew old paper was so brittle? Darcy should have warned him. And then there were those museums and the endless collecting. Snowflakes, was it, this month? Or was Darcy still pocketing stones and straw plaits and chestnuts as he had last fall at Netherfield?

Since closing that country house and returning to the social whirl of the Ton, Bingley had found himself at odds with the demands of his sisters and annoyed with the short stack of cards deposited on his desk every day. There should be more. More cards, more calls, more opportunities for fun. Usually he could count on Darcy to accompany him on his forays into society, however reluctantly, and Bingley did so hate to do anything alone. Having Darcy as company always brightened the evening. Everyone was pleased to see the Master of Pemberley, and most of the time the great man seemed to enjoy himself on their social outings.

But Darcy, of late, was quite a dullard. His conversation was stilted, his attention was distracted, all his energies seemingly driven to his fingers, which he tapped incessantly on the table, or on his book, or on his chair. Darcy's hands needed some other occupation, mused Bingley. He leveled a serious look at his most admirable friend. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a handsome man, but his profile was now marred by a furrowed brow and a steady frown. His hands, which could clench a steed's reins as powerfully as they wielded the steely shaft of a sword, were capable of much more than that irritating drumming. Bingley thought he knew just the thing—Darcy's mind needed something pleasurable to help it turn off all of that endless thinking.

God, the thinking, the musing, the turning over of a thought, or a word. What had happened to his friend since they had left Hertfordshire? There, Darcy had been diverted from his family troubles or estate issues or whatever it was that had had him so overwrought last summer. At Netherfield, he had once again been spirited on his horse, accurate with his billiards cue, and animated during his conversations...well, mostly those with Miss Elizabeth. Ah, Elizabeth Bennet and those fine eyes of hers. But better they were away from those Bennet sisters, no? Lovely as Jane Bennet might be, and she was so very, very, very pretty, Bingley now recognized that her company was far less engaging than that of his tall, stoic friend. She was so quiet, so demure, so placid. So angelic, yet so damn unencouraging! And her sister was a bit too familiar, perhaps a bit too threatening to Darcy's equanimity. Better indeed that it was just the two of them again.

Yes, indeed, Bingley thought. We need a night out, just the two of us, enjoying manly pursuits with no such distractions.

But how to pry Darcy away from his fascinations? The man was endlessly in the corner, staring into the darkness of the window, or at the curtain, or at the wallpaper. Or fondling some damn rock or acorn or twig. He had not seen any sign of animation in his friend since they had departed Hertfordshire, come to think of it. The last time he had seen his handsome friend show a spark of enthusiasm was, hmmm...well, as had occurred to him just a moment before, most likely a conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Not that he had been so closely paying attention, no, not at all. But those two had spent considerable time in conversation, speaking of books and poets and making comments in Latin or Greek or Italian or some such jibber-jabber. Give him good old English any day!

At times, Bingley had noted, both Darcy and Miss Elizabeth had flared their nostrils at each other while jibber-jabbering. Not that he had really paid too much attention. He had had other things on his mind. Had they been angry, or did all that nostril-flaring denote some other emotion? It had certainly _appeared _to be anger. But why had they become so angry when they were only discussing dry old books?

He had not seen such a look on Darcy's face since that time back at Eton when the headmaster's daughter had touched his... Bingley flushed. Oh, Darcy would hate that he remembered it so clearly. Yet it had led to the most illuminating conversation of his young life, in which his older friend had haltingly explained to him how proper consummation worked. What part went where and when, how tongues might be involved, but how he must nevertheless always remember that it was not proper even to touch a young lady's ungloved hand until marriage. Bingley had had so many questions about how the lips moved and where the noses were placed while kissing and then Wickham had strolled in and laughed at him, at both of them actually. Come to think of it, that had prompted Darcy's nostrils to flare as well, though in that instance it clearly _had _been an expression of anger.

What had happened to his dear friend? Arguing about books with an impertinent, book-reading country girl? Bingley could not understand how a person could become angry about a _book_, of all things. More perplexing, though, was that even though Darcy had been angry with Miss Elizabeth, he had done something Bingley had never known him to do before: he had asked Elizabeth Bennet to dance a reel! In the sitting room! Now that _was _odd.

But what was even more peculiar was that Miss Elizabeth had refused him. At least that had seemed to be the case; he was not completely certain since he, himself, had been otherwise occupied thinking about Jane—Miss Bennet—who had been upstairs, sick in bed. Darcy was all that a gentleman should be, anyone could see that, and yet Miss Elizabeth had not seemed to appreciate it. Darcy had a fine mind, in fact a brilliant mind as far as Bingley could tell, honed by the finest education money could buy. He was the best master to his dependents, the best brother, the most loyal friend, the most accomplished sportsman, and was furthermore the owner of the broadest shoulders and the best seat Bingley had ever seen. And he had that which Bingley coveted most for himself—a cleft chin. How could Miss Elizabeth not see these things? Why had she argued with Darcy, who had such impeccable and widely appreciated discernment? It really was quite strange.

Well, Miss Elizabeth may not have understood Darcy's superiority of character, but Bingley was no fool. He knew what was what. So, certainly, when Darcy had given Bingley his honest opinion of Miss Bennet, he had listened. Yes, Jane Bennet was all that was lovely, so sweet and gentle, and Bingley had thought that maybe... But Darcy was always right about these things, so masterful was he, with superb judgment in all things. He _must _have been right in his assessment that Jane's feelings had not truly been engaged. Anyway, Bingley was not so very sad about the end of the affair, really. Likely things were better this way. It was back to being just Darcy and Bingley again, Bingley and Darcy, as it always had been, as it always would be, no matter what feminine distractions came their way.

And that brought him back to his original thought—how to persuade Darcy to stop stewing and have some fun with him, Bingley. How could he distract him from these aimless avenues of contemplation and get him over to Almack's, or even better, to that club his imposing mustachioed cousin boasted about when in his cups? Which was quite often, if one thought about what was actually proper for an officer and a gentleman. Ah, to be the son of an Earl.

Nevertheless, perhaps temporary temptations of the feminine kind were not quite the thing. Darcy was a private man. Bingley was not certain that his proper, handsome friend had ever accompanied his cousin on those nocturnal visits to the French houses. In fact, he was not completely sure whether Darcy had enjoyed the favors of _any _woman. He certainly had not had his heart touched. Bingley was sure of it.

But this was Fitzwilliam Tiberius Darcy! Of course he must have _known _women, though, to Bingley's chagrin, his friend was an insufferably proper man who simply would not celebrate nor share such information. Yet it was obvious that Darcy _could_ enjoy many favors if he wished to, and likely had done so. The ladies of the Ton—be they married, widowed, hard-eyed or dewy fresh, on or off the shelf—all of them were endlessly batting their eyelashes at him and lowering their bodices and touching his sleeve. Not that Bingley was paying close attention. But people did talk. His sisters talked quite a bit, more than necessary actually, and he knew that Darcy was a much-admired, much-sought-after man about town. He was an enigma, a man who confessed nothing of a personal nature to his particular friend. He talked instead of his travels, his books, his woods, his sister. He fenced, he played his violin, he did not fall asleep during Shakespeare. He was so busy and so important and oh so very interesting. Or at least he used to be.

Bingley drained his half-full glass and trained an evaluative eye on his friend. What, exactly, was he about? Why was he over in his chair, brooding and sighing heavily, sipping his brandy, and staring into the flames? On an excruciatingly dull Sunday night when they could have been doing something _much _more entertaining?

"Darcy, old man! What do you say we step out this evening? What has you so down at the mouth? Some fresh air, that is what you need!"

The great man slowly turned his head and gazed at his friend. "Bingley, it is the Sabbath. Moreover, it is near dark and near dinner, not to mention near blizzarding outside. What could possibly claim our attention in this so-called fresh air?"

In an effort to distract Darcy while he organized his thoughts in reply to the man's as-always irrefutable logic, Bingley bounced across the room and seized the poker from the fireplace. He leaned over and poked at a log, sending sparks up the chimney and compelling a teary cough from his friend.

"Good God, Charles! Sit down and put that thing away!" Darcy raised a handkerchief and wiped at his eyes.

Hmmm. An awfully lacy bit of cloth, thought Bingley. From a lady friend? Aha! He could make out some initials in the corner...was that an E? Or perhaps a Q? "Sorry, Darcy. Er, that handkerchief is a fine piece of work. Was that a gift...?"

He poured a generous serving of brandy into Darcy's glass and then filled his own empty glass.

Darcy glared at him and rather quickly stuffed the cloth into his pocket. "For heaven's sake, Bingley. Are you so at loose ends that you wish to discuss linens and embroidery with me?" He raised his glass to his lips and took a large draught from it.

"Oh, well. I just, you see...You have been quiet since our return to Town. I did not know if you perhaps had regretted our leaving?" Bingley gulped and took a deep swallow of the brandy, wondering why Darcy was staring at him so curiously. "Not that I regret it, not in the least, of course," he hastened to interject. Why was Darcy so quick to anger with him, Bingley? Miss Elizabeth had exchanged sharp, clever words with him and he had never seemed angry. Perhaps I should use bigger words? he asked himself.

"Me? Regret leaving a one-stable village to return to my comfortable home and visit with my sister for the holiday season? I think not."

Bingley sank down into the chair across from Darcy. "Why, then, have you been so little out and about? Caroline was disappointed not to find you at the Altons' ball." Bingley raised his eyebrows suggestively. "And she was not the only young lady left with disappointed hopes."

He caught a sudden, momentary glimpse of something peculiar—pain? that seemed unlikely—on Darcy's face, gone as soon as he noticed it. "Yes, well, Charles. We all have our duties. I cannot attend _every _ball."

"I see. Well, if dancing and eluding matchmaking matrons is not to your taste, perhaps we could petition your cousin to take us over to that house he so favours...?"

Bingley trailed off, unable to make eye contact. There, he had boldly mentioned it, but did he really want to go to one of those houses? He had been to such a place but once, when his uncle had deposited his 18-year-old self on a courtesan's doorstep and announced he would expect a timely report on his experiences. Bingley had managed to stammer his way through a brief summation the next day, and then fled to his rooms and sworn to himself he would never, ever again bed a raven-haired woman. She had left marks on his person—with her lips and teeth! A minx, she was, a vixen, that Mademoiselle Angélique!

Oh, no, he had not said her name aloud just now, had he? Just to make certain, he glanced up at Darcy, who fortunately remained quiet and fixated on the fire. Bingley wiped his hand across his mouth in relief. Then he suddenly realized Darcy was answering his question. What had it been, again?

"Bingley, I have no flames to quench, no desire to seek comfort in the arms of a well-practiced but ill-educated woman."

"Very well! More brandy, my friend?" Bingley replied happily, all thoughts of dark-haired women blessedly swept from his brain as he delighted in pondering the mischief the two of them could get up to even if they had to stay here at Darcy's rather than going out. Perhaps he could tease Darcy into a better mood through the careful application of copious amounts of spirits.

And so they drank, with some restraint at first, and then with greater abandon. The deeper they drank, the more the warmth of Darcy's fine liquor loosened their tongues and unlocked their innermost thoughts. Plates of cold meats and cheeses arrived but were ignored. Before long, the two young men found themselves sprawled side by side in their respective leather armchairs, separated by the decanter on a little table, exchanging confidences such as they rarely had before.

"What is it you like about that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Darce?" Bingley slurred, gesturing with his brandy glass in hand. "Truly, I cannot account for it. Yes, she has pretty eyes and she certainly had Caroline's measure, but still..."

"Well, of course she is completely unsuitable for a man of my consequence—but I will admit that I enjoyed sparring with her."

"Sparring?" Bingley sputtered. "_We _spar! I hope you were not actually thinking about engaging in fisticuffs with the lady," he said thoughtfully, making little jabs with his fists and sloshing his brandy on the carpet.

Darcy grimaced at his dampened rug, then looked at his friend with mingled pity and fondness. "Of course I did not mean _literal _sparring, Charles. _Verbal _sparring." He sighed, and quietly added, "with tongues, not hands."

Bingley nodded, wobbling a bit. "Ah, naturally. Still, what do you need _her _for, man? You have me for that, no? Is that not what our gentleman friends are for?"

"Bingley, be serious." The ratio of pity to fondness in Darcy's expression increased substantially. "It is hardly the same sort of—"

"No, truly. You like to discuss, eh, Herodotus, right? All right, then. I read Herodotus at Cambridge, too, just as you did. Say something clever about Herodotus. I shall argue with you." Bingley sat up as straight as he could and adopted a serious mien. In spite of his best efforts he still listed to the right a bit.

Darcy eyed him skeptically. "Very well. Let us discuss Herodotus's lifelong argument with his famous contemporary, Thomas Aquinas, on the nature of being, and on the precise number of angels who could dance on the head of a pin."

Bingley nodded vigorously, and he regretted it almost immediately. "Yes, exactly so. This is just the sort of thing I meant. Please remind me, how many angels did each man say?"

Darcy slumped back in his chair, slapping his glass down on the silver tray between them. "For God's sake, Bingley. Herodotus lived in the fifth century before Christ, while Thomas Aquinas lived a mere six hundred years prior to our own time. They never disagreed about this or anything else for that matter."

Bingley flushed to the tips of his already red ears. "Then what, may I ask, was your intention in proposing such a ridiculous topic for discussion?"

Darcy rubbed his hand across his jaw. "You wished to have an intellectual debate. I attempted to ascertain whether you were prepared do so. Perhaps we are more evenly matched for a game of darts." He noticed his friend's unfocused eyes and gentled his voice. "Or billiards."

Bingley shrugged and yanked off his cravat. He leaned back in his chair. "Ladies wear skirts and are no good at riding nor at billiards or darts. They are pretty things to look at, though."

"Ladies are good for much more than admiration from afar, Bingley."

"Ha ha, but a man does like to keep his distance, does he not?"

"Why do you say that?" asked Darcy, frowning. He leaned over and pulled off his boots. Always fastidious, even when more than a little intoxicated, he placed the boots carefully just under the table between the two chairs.

"Well, certainly one wants to stay away from Caroline and Louisa!"

"Yes, yes, one does, certainly." Darcy seemed to have immediately thought better of this and quickly continued, "I say that with the greatest respect, Bingley." But Bingley was not offended in any case. He knew they were dreadful. They always had been.

"If one were to judge all women by my sisters, one would think they are a fearsome lot. Such sharp tongues, such malice aforethought, such scheming and planning...Is it not better to maintain a proper distance and simply admire them from afar, as you say?"

Darcy thought about this for a moment, apparently carefully measuring his response. "I suppose, if one did judge all women by your sisters...but imagine for a moment what would happen if we considered other women we have known, women who exercise discernment and rationality."

Bingley shook his head. "I have never known such a woman."

"Have you never thought, Bingley, that this is because you have always kept your distance? Certainly you can tell me much about the countenance, dress, and manners of numerous women, women with whom you have considered yourself in love? But can you say any more about them?"

"Oh, yes. I do so enjoy looking at them. They are indeed quite beautiful, lovely, charming, decorative. But when one wishes to speak of something of, uh, substance, then naturally one turns to one's gentlemen friends." Bingley noticed that Darcy looked very comfortable indeed sitting there in his stocking feet, so now he began tugging at his own boots. He yanked off the right one and tossed it carelessly aside so he could concentrate on the other, tighter-fitting boot.

"Bingley, when have you ever spoken to me about something of substance?" Darcy rolled his eyes and loosened his cravat.

"What? Have I not consulted you extensively on matters of, eh, um, the stewardship of an estate? On gaining admittance to the finest of gentlemen's clubs? On the behavior, comportment, and appearance of a gentleman? On sport—how best to shoot a pheasant or to train a hunting dog?" Bingley panted, finally achieving victory over the intransigent footwear. He leaned back in his chair and reached for his glass.

Darcy gave a heavy sigh. "Yes, these are weighty matters, indeed, Bingley.

"But Charles," he continued, "there is something more, something so alluring, so...passionate about arguing with a woman about ideas. Yes, it is stimulating to have these discussions with one's equals over cigars and brandy, but with a woman—it is something else altogether."

"Is that so, Darce? Truly, I do not see it."

"Oh, yes. The thrusting, the parrying, the riposting, the tests of mental agility and strength—indeed they take on a whole new meaning, with a lady." Darcy poured himself a bit more brandy, sat back and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

Bingley sat silently and thought about this for a few moments.

"Hmm. I had never thought of it in quite that way." He thought some more. "So what you are saying, my friend, is that arguing with a lady is merely a prelude to...you know." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Darcy sighed in irritation. "No, not exactly."

"Do you mean you never thought about Miss Elizabeth's womanly charms or her fine eyes whilst 'sparring' with _her_?" Bingley grinned crookedly at the pinched look on Darcy's face. "I told you Caroline talked too much, did I not?"

Darcy pulled off his cravat. "Her eyes sparkled when she argued, Bingley."

Had Darcy always had such a toothy smile? Bingley wondered.

"Oh," he exclaimed, coming back to himself. "So do yours, Darcy. When you are talking to her, I mean," Bingley said, and flushed when he saw Darcy's stricken expression. So he mumbled on about eyes, which was all he could think to talk about. "Caroline's eyes are always hard, Louisa's are shooting this way and that. They make me dizzy. Jane's eyes were so blue and so serene and steady. But I saw no reciprocal affection." He sniffled. Where had that come from?

Alarmed, Darcy leaned forward. "Charles, all women are a mystery. It is our duty to delve, carve, excavate our way through those layers..."

"Aha! How surgical it all is! So, you say, arguing is indeed a prelude to discovering other charms. I knew it!" Bingley held out his near-empty glass and set it on the table next to Darcy's half-full one. "Darcy, have you felt it? Love? Have _you_ admired a woman?"

Darcy shot unsteadily to his feet and strode to the fireplace. His knees appeared to wobble a bit as he walked in his stocking feet, and he laid a hand on the mantel as he caught his breath and tried to regain his balance.

Bingley took a deep breath. His fingers fumbled as he made to unbutton his constricting waistcoat. Brandy was so very filling. He felt that he was finally, at long last, on the verge of discovering something weighty and important about his friend. Darcy, the man who knew everything, who had traveled far and tasted well of the world, would reveal the secrets of a woman worth having! Surely whatever sort of woman Darcy admired would be the sort Bingley should admire, as well. Darcy knew everything about everything, after all, and without a doubt that must include women.

The great and all-knowing Darcy turned around. He looked...confused. This is odd, thought Bingley. Darcy often looks angry or impatient or indulgent, but he never looks confused.

"Yes, Bingley. I believe I have. I have admired a lady."

"Crikey, Darce!" Bingley's head was swimming now. So much knowledge, and so much brandy. He hoped Darcy would not bring up history or philosophy again. Or Greek. Please, not Greek. He thought he had better see if he could steer the conversation away from things Greek and Greek-ish.

"I am all astonishment. You can banter with me and discuss business, and you may fence with your cousin. I cannot fence well, and as a military man your cousin does not discuss estate business," he cried, in mock bewilderment. "But you have found a lady with whom you can banter, share estate concerns, _and_ parry and thrust in other more rewarding ways?"

Bingley winked as well as one can after having downed three large tumblers of brandy and loudly whispered, "I mean, in your bed, of course."

Darcy winced and nodded. "I took your meaning, Charles. These things, indeed, are what would make a well-accomplished woman. In my eyes, at any rate."

Those eyes were quite blurry, observed Bingley, blurrily.

"And you are in love with a woman who meets such exacting requirements?" Even inebriated as he was, Bingley found this rather surprising. Surely his most accomplished friend had not been stung by love's arrow without breathing a word of it to him, his best friend, Bingley.

Darcy shook his head and threw himself down into his chair. "Indeed I am not. Parse my words, Bingley. I have met and admired her. It goes no further."

"But..."

Darcy reached into his pocket. His hand emerged once more clutching the handkerchief. And a ribbon. "As you see, I am still in an unmarried state. Perhaps I am indeed too nice in my requirements." He returned the items back to his pocket.

Darcy picked up his glass and drained the brandy within it. He put the glass down on the tray, nudging it forward to indicate Bingley should refill it for him. Bingley was, of course, only too happy to oblige.

"Yes, there was indeed a lady I admired once," Darcy confessed, his words slightly slurred, "but she lacked a certain...social stature. I must uphold my responsibility to the estate and my heritage. Admiration is not enough."

So says Darcy. It must be the truth. Bingley sighed. "Then what is enough? I did admire Jane's beauty, Darcy. We made a fine pair at dancing. And we both love puppies and ginger cake. But I never had a good argument with her. Not once. We were happy, you know, but I see now how very dull it would have been with her. Especially compared to, say, how you sparred with Miss Elizabeth."

Darcy's eyes widened. "Well, yes. She and I did have some memorable conversations." He briefly closed his eyes and then cleared his throat. "But I talked with your sisters as well, did I not?"

"Sisters are...they are an obstacle to love, Darcy. Not for you, of course. Georgiana would never stop you from pursuing true love, would she?"

Why was Darcy biting his lip and looking so sad, Bingley wondered. "Darce! Did she stop you?"

His tall friend slid down deeply into his chair. "No, Charles, of course not. I—_I_ stopped _myself _from endeavouring to discover if she—the lady—was my true love. And now I shall never know," he trailed off quietly.

Bingley's heart leapt. Darcy, in unrequited love! He, Bingley, had just _known _that Darcy's feelings had gone beyond mere admiration. Bingley had been in and out of love a hundred times, so he should know. And now his friend, his _best_ friend, needed his assistance. His! Bingley could not advise him on issues related to tenants, nor on handling errant sisters, nor could he correct his fencing technique or discuss bloody old Herodaquinas. But he could counsel him on matters of the heart! Hmm, and then he should buy new stockings, Bingley thought, staring at his toe.

"Darcy, old man, I am so pleased to hear you speak of true love. This is an area where I do have some experience. Perhaps I could help you discern whether the lady in question is indeed your true love." Bingley hiccuped and could not be bothered trying to hide it.

"Charles, did we not just ascertain that you may be a master in the fine art of admiring women from afar, but are a novice when it comes to truly understanding women?"

"Well, yes, but I am quite adept at admiring them," he said, making the shape of a curvy silhouette with his hands, "and is admiration not a short step from love?"

"I believe you have missed the point entirely—" Darcy sputtered.

"No, I think not, Darcy. Did your lady's eyes inspire you to write odes? Did her flawless, alabaster skin leave you desperate to see more?"

Darcy blushed. "Well, yes. Er, I—. But—"

"There are no buts about it!" Bingley cried. "_A priori_, _cave canem_, it is true love."

"Bingley, I do not believe that means what you think it means—"

"Of course it does! Everyone knows that!" Bingley gestured wildly and clanked his glass against the decanter, knocking it over entirely and sending brandy trickling off the edge of the table and straight into Darcy's fine Hessian boots. "Damn."

Bingley dragged himself up to a standing position and leaned over the back of Darcy's chair to yank hard on the damask bell-pull, which fell to the ground with a ripping sound. "Damn. More brandy!" He flopped back down in his own chair, hard, and threw a leg over the arm of the chair. His head was spinning oddly.

"No, no. Enough brandy. Bingley, you really must listen to me on this. That is not true love. That is lust. True love is something else altogether, a meeting of minds, a sharing of...well, I could go on." Darcy paused and took a deep breath. His face was pale, his eyes piercing and bright.

Exhaling, he continued in a slow, deliberate, and, to Bingley's ears, ever so slightly pompous voice. "But love without an equality of station, without a symmetry in circumstance, is doomed. It is irresponsible, especially on the side of the party with superiority of station. It will not do."

"Oh, hogwash, Darcy." Bingley now turned completely sideways in his chair and lay his head on the table between them, leaving him gazing upside down at Darcy. Really, he had thought Darcy a bit, well, deeper than this. Even he, Bingley, knew there was more to life than station and all that. He began to feel a bit lightheaded with this revelation.

Bingley also observed that from this angle he could see certain things about Darcy's visage that had previously escaped his notice. The man had a small scar, from shaving perhaps or a boyhood fight?, under his jaw. And was that a silver hair curling on his collar? Imagine that! He might have a cleft chin, and be a superior physical specimen in every imaginable way, but he was, indeed, just a man, like everyone else. Albeit one with a bruised heart, which made him worse off than himself, mused Bingley, foggily. Ha, Darcy worse off than him, Bingley! Really? Hmm...

Darcy continued their earlier conversation, which Bingley now struggled to remember. Something about station, or duty, maybe, knowing Darcy. "It is not hogwash! I am surprised at you, Bingley, for thinking such nonsense, let alone saying it out loud. Have you not been listening to anything I have told you all these years?"

Dreamily, and smiling a secret little smile, Bingley mumbled, "Love is not _everything_, Darce, but surely it is _something_. Something wonderful."

With that, Bingley closed his eyes and gave a great snore that shook the glassware on the silver tray.

Darcy sat thinking about this for a few minutes as he watched his friend's chest rise and fall.

"It may be something, my friend," he concluded sadly. "Something, but it is far from sufficient."

Just then his man Parsons came into the room and looked at him inquiringly.

"Thank you, Parsons. There is a bit of a mess on the carpet, and some brandy in my boots. Please have Bingley conveyed to his usual room. I am for bed."

Darcy weaved slowly toward his rooms, grabbing now and again at the wall as he went, his head down like a condemned man. When he arrived in his bedroom, he pulled the handkerchief and hair ribbon from his pocket. Looking at them wistfully, he folded the handkerchief neatly into quarters, and tucked the ribbon into it. He turned the beautifully embroidered initials over to hide them. Then he opened a drawer in the bureau near his bed and, reaching back as far as he could, regretfully, slowly, put the handkerchief underneath the small clothes therein. He closed the drawer firmly and walked away to gaze unseeing out the window at the street outside. The snowflakes continued to swirl, catching the dim lamplight and illuminating, however briefly, the darkness of the night.

~End of Part I~

Before you pass out from drinking too much brandy, please leave us a little comment right in the review section.


	2. Part II: In Vino Veritas

_A/N: We had intended to stop after one installment of The Most Interesting Man in the World, but we had so much fun playing with Bingley and Darcy, and Bingley seemed to have so much more to say, that we wrote four more parts. They are a series of vignettes where we see what Bingley and Darcy might have been up to at key moments, for them at least, in canon. With the exception of the Colonel's great mustache, the characterizations and events are meant to be more or less canon-compliant. Sometimes less. We plan to post on Mondays._

**The Most Interesting Man in the World**

**Part II: In Vino Veritas**

**(In Wine, There is Truth)**

Darcy had sent word the previous week that he and his mustachioed cousin would be returning to London from Kent this evening, so Bingley clapped his fine new beaver hat on his head and set off in his carriage for Darcy's townhouse. His friend had been an absolute bear since that evening in January when they had drunk themselves into a stupor—nothing was good enough! The ladies this season were shockingly lacking in beauty, accomplishment and charm! And so on until really Bingley just could not stand it any longer. He sincerely hoped that Darcy's time in Kent with his aunt and cousin might have removed that stick from his...oh, never mind.

As the carriage bounced along the foggy night-time streets, Bingley reflected that Darcy's bad mood had really been dragging him, Bingley, down. His own natural insouciance, as dear Aunt Millie liked to called it, had been tamped down and reduced to a sad mask, like the one worn by Darcy. This would not do. Much as Bingley admired his friend's handsome mien, quick mind and warm companionship, he did not wish to be just like him in _that _particular way. He, Charles Horatio Bingley, wished to smile and be happy. But he had not been able to enjoy himself lately. He had tried, really tried, to learn from Darcy and to find a lady to spar with—surely that would be enjoyable, as Darcy had said.

Just last week he had attended a card party at Mrs. Johnson's home. There he had noticed a pretty young lady, a Miss Constance Weatherbee, who had had fine, flashing eyes and had seemed to be enjoying lively conversation with several younger gentlemen in one corner. He had recognized two of the young swains jostling for the lady's attention, and felt he could comfortably join in their level of repartee. Sensing a need to act and not think too much on his approach, Bingley had adjusted his cuffs and cut a straight path past the pretty girls in their spring dresses. Brantley and Smythe had greeted him and made the proper introductions to Miss Weatherbee.

"Welcome to our little set, Mr. Bingley," she had cooed. "We are in the middle of the most fascinating discussion of discourse, and how wars can begin and love affairs end based on a simple misunderstanding of the language."

Bingley had nodded eagerly. Yes, conversation was something he could, well, converse about. "I see. Messages not received or ill-read have changed the course of history."

Brantley had coughed. "But when the tongue is involved, it is far worse."

Miss Weatherbee had tittered and the small group had roared with laughter. This was fun, Bingley had mused.

"Tongues do tangle," he had offered, thinking himself quite clever. Yes, he could joust and parry.

"I have heard the tale of a man who set forth a sequence of events simply by misunderstanding the meaning of a simple phrase," Miss Weatherbee had said.

The men had leaned in and she had begun her short tale about a Cambridge classmate of her brother's who had, while imbibing enthusiastically with his friends in the common rooms one evening, insisted that _ars gratia artis _meant not "Art is the reward of art" but "The donkey thanks the artist." In spite of his friends' protests to the contrary, the classmate had proclaimed loudly and repeatedly that this was undoubtedly what it meant. He was sure of it. The son of England's ambassador to Spain, himself quite inebriated, had overheard this remark and thought it was such nonsense that it could only be secret code. He had sent word of it to his father, who had in turn sent it to the codebreakers, who had determined it was valuable military intelligence that could help turn the tide in the Peninsula. Of course it had actually sent the troops off on a wild goose chase, waiting and waiting for a French battalion that had most obviously never materialized. The English soldiers were so horribly dampened in the November rains that replacing their worsted uniforms had required the early shearing of an entire generation of sheep and the woolmakers had tripled their prices. Fortunes had been made and lost as a result. It had been a debacle on all counts. Such fools! What dimwits! Particularly the fellow who could not even translate the simplest of Latin sayings properly.

Good Lord. Bingley knew he was not good at Latin, and never had been. Stunned and embarrassed and desperately hopeful that no one there recognized him as the ill-informed idiot, a red-faced Bingley had offered a weak rejoinder. "Perhaps he had wax in his ears. It can build up and impede proper understanding."

"Oh. I would hope not," replied a rather offended Miss Weatherbee. She had turned away and whispered to Smythe, effectively dismissing Bingley. He had found himself spending his evening playing whist with two spinsters and Mrs. Johnson's mute uncle. Such welcoming, unchallenging company had come as a relief.

Yes, he was certainly trying to find this exemplary kind of lady, one to spar and jab with, just as Darcy had said. But secretly he was beginning to believe that maybe he just did not have what it took to do so. Indeed, the harder he tried, the more he found himself longing not for a lady who was adept at making a clever remark, inventing an amusing sally in Latin, or quoting an _a propos_ poem, but for a lady who might be kind and gentle, who might see the best in everyone, who genuinely cared for the people around her. Someone like Jane Bennet, not to put too fine a point on it. But of course, _not _dear Jane, er, Miss Bennet, because after all, Darcy had rightly pointed out that she did not seem to care for him, not really. He wondered whether he would be able to find a lady with such qualities in the cutthroat sitting rooms of London. Still, he would keep trying. Darcy was usually right about these things, and about nearly everything else, after all. Yes, he was sure that Darcy would have a method for helping Bingley find a lovely lady who could spar with him a bit more, well, _gently_. It would be particularly nice if she liked puppies.

When he arrived at Darcy's townhouse, he found that the great man himself and his cousin were, as expected, holed up in Darcy's study. Excitement at the thought of seeing Darcy—oh, and his jackanapes cousin, too—again after so long swept all his concerns clean from his head. Enthusiastically thrusting his hat and coat at the butler, Jones, was it?, he bounded into the study. Well, this ought to be good! he thought. Surely the Colonel would have some ideas for a lively evening out on the town—a visit to a gaming hell, perhaps, or a race between man and beast? He had read about such things, or perhaps Hurst had mentioned them?

Bingley entered the room, a great smile of anticipation on his face, bellowing, "Darce! You are back! Have I got some stories for you, old man! Colonel! What do you have in store for us this fine evening?"

Darcy waved his arm in Bingley's general direction, but did not greet Bingley with his customary slap on the back. Bingley noticed that Darcy was, in fact, stalking around the room in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cravat askew. It was most uncharacteristic of his usually fastidious friend, and did not portend well for an evening out at the club or anywhere else for that matter.

"Evening, Bingley," said the Colonel. He was as ruddy-faced as Bingley remembered. His mustache had grown to impressive proportions, and it was quivering with indignation as he spoke to Darcy.

"You ask that I shut it? You ask that I desist from pursuing this line of argument?" He shook his head in disgust, and Bingley watched, fascinated, as the esteemed mustache drooped even further. "You are a proud fool, Darcy," he thundered. "But you are a good man. Even a blind man could see that. But not a lady, apparently," he trailed off thoughtfully.

What was this? He had called Darcy a fool!, Bingley gasped to himself. And Darcy had said nothing in his own defense? He observed his admirable friend as he assumed his usual stance, face to the window, back to the room. Bingley noted something peculiar, however. Darcy's broad shoulders were slumped and his head hung down. What have we here?, wondered Bingley. And did he say something about a lady? Then Darcy spoke.

"Archie, you are an ignoramus. The only things you understand are how to drink all of my best wines and brandies and how to remind me of all my failings. I thank you." He reached for the decanter and thrust it at his cousin's chest. "Make yourself useful. Fill it up!" With this he sat down, hard, in the chair next to his cousin.

Bingley laughed at Darcy's unexpected petulance. He usually was so steady and reasonable. "What the devil is wrong with you this evening, Darcy?"

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong with me. You know that seeing my Aunt Catherine always puts me in a foul temper, Bingley." This was true, mused Bingley. But normally Darcy displayed that temper through making veiled, cutting remarks rather than by stomping around like a madman. Bingley found that he was both shocked and just the tiniest bit amused by his friend's tantrum. It seemed familiar, and he realized that Caroline often behaved in similar fashion.

"Then I know just the thing to cheer you up, old man! We must go out for a night on the town. What tickles your fancy this evening? Dogs, cards, women?" He kept an eye on the Colonel as he mentioned the latter. Women were really his province, after all.

Perhaps tonight Darcy's worldly cousin would finally take them to one of these legendary houses of charming ladies he was always rhapsodizing about. Perhaps if one of the ladies looked like Jane Bennet...No, Bingley thought. That was not what he wished. She would not have the fine inner qualities that truly made Jane, er, Miss Bennet, so lovely. On the other hand, Darcy, slumped in the chair, his arms crossed and his face vexed, looked to be in need of _some _kind of pampering and attention. However, it also appeared that if anyone attempted to touch him, he would tear that person's head off and devour it whole. Ah, _that _sort of outing would not do for him tonight, either, then. The man needed companionship, brotherly companionship, the kind only his cousin and he, Bingley, could provide him.

But Darcy was mumbling on to himself about whatever it was they had been discussing ages ago. Why could he not keep up? What did he mean by "last man in the world"?

"Bingley, playing some stupid game of chance will not lift my spirits. You know I abhor that sort of thing—the insipid conversation, the low company..."

"The theater, then? That would be capital!" Bingley loved the theater, especially the comedies. He knew that Darcy would not approve of strongmen, or magic tricks, acrobats or dancing bears, the sorts of things which he, Bingley, secretly adored. But no doubt Shakespeare, or some other high-minded but humorous chap, might be just the thing?

"Surely not," exclaimed Darcy, his face dark as a thundercloud. "Absolutely not. I am in no mood for comedy. To say nothing at all of tragedy! My God, man."

Clearly this called for a more grandiose gesture of some sort, if Darcy had rejected his beloved Shakespeare. Well, Bingley knew just the thing. "Darcy, prepare yourself for the evening of a lifetime! Unlock your liquor cabinets and fill the decanters with your finest spirits. I challenge you at billiards! You provide the brandy and I will provide you a contest for the ages."

The Colonel rolled his eyes. "You are hitting my poor cousin in one of his endless sore spots, Bingley. His precious French brandy." He broke into a grin and his enormous furry lips stretched wide. "Come on then! To the billiards room."

Bingley eagerly grabbed several glasses and made to follow the Colonel, but Darcy did not move a muscle.

The Colonel looked at him with a gimlet eye, and in his most commanding voice, barked "Darcy! Up! No more complaints, no stalling, and no more self-pity! Transport your sorry self to the billiards room _immediately_!"

In spite of himself, Darcy cracked the tiniest hint of a smile. "And just who do you think you are to order me around in this absurd fashion?"

The Colonel grinned. "Ignore my many decorations and medals as you will. I certainly have more experience than you in healing wounds such as those you have just suffered."

A wound? Bingley wondered. Had Darcy been thrown from a horse? Had a fencing accident? Got the French disease? My God.

The Colonel herded Darcy and a very worried Bingley down the hallway to the billiards room. Bingley put down the drinking glasses on a side table by the window seat.

"Let us go to it. Jackets off, and at the ready," snapped the Colonel with military precision as he and Bingley launched their coats toward a chair by the wall..

He peered at the decanter he had carried in from the study and then glanced at Darcy. "Already stripped down, are we? You and Bingley are up first. Let us have short games, fifteen minutes per game, in pairs, double elimination. And with every point lost, a great swig of brandy!" With this he lifted the decanter in the air.

Darcy looked at him sourly. "Your primary objective is thus clearly revealed."

"Aha, you have seen right through me!" laughed the Colonel. "What is the nature of your objection? Do you require stakes other than the pleasure of seeing your companions fall down drunk? Or perhaps you wish to drink yourself into a stupor, but fear you will not be forced to drink because you are such a superior player?"

This provoked chuckles from the three men because they were, in fact, rather evenly matched. Darcy was an excellent all-around player, the Colonel had a powerful arm, and Bingley was, unaccountably, rather a genius with the geometry and physics of a difficult shot.

"Yes, I see we shall have to sweeten the pot with a wager!" exclaimed Bingley. This would be just the thing to distract Darcy, he thought. "If I win, Darcy must tell me the story of his wound. If I lose, I will tell you about a great revelation of mine."

His two friends exchanged bemused glances. "And what is at stake for me?" said the Colonel, putting down the decanter and picking up a cue stick. "I win the tale of Darcy's woe or the great Bingley epiphany? One I already have heard and the other would try my patience." He pointed his stick at a painting of a fox hunt. "You two can talk to each other until you turn blue, but I choose a hunt, with you as my grousing sidemen, for my reward."

Bingley laughed and Darcy scowled and the game was on. Every point scored—every ball pocketed, every red ball struck—required another great slurp of brandy, and thus each man's forward progress seemed to lessen Bingley's hope for victory and put more wobble in his legs and arms. The game was closely fought to the end, so that by the time Bingley emerged victorious with 50 points to Darcy's 48, he had to hang onto the side of the billiards table to keep his balance.

Upon his defeat, Darcy himself immediately gave up trying to remain upright and retreated with a resounding thud to sprawl on the cushioned window seat, from which he opted to view the unfolding contest between Bingley and the Colonel.

"Are you sure you wish to continue playing, Charles?" asked the Colonel with some solicitude, taking a long drink of brandy and wiping his mustache on his sleeve with a flourish. "It hardly seems fair. Fat lot of good your geometry prowess will do you now," he cackled.

"Ah, but you know how much he hates a hunt, Archie," Darcy threw in. "He would do anything to avoid that."

"Nonsense! I shall be fine," Bingley said brightly, although privately he wondered whether he would be able to stand much longer. "Colonel, if you please, oblige me by drinking a glass or two more, and then we shall call it even."

The Colonel did oblige, and presently the game commenced. The Colonel won the right to break, and he immediately scored three points, forcing Bingley to drink. Damn. A few more shots back and forth, a few more drinks, and the Colonel had backed Bingley into a very tricky shot indeed, the red balls blocked by the Colonel's cue ball. Bingley staggered back and forth along the table, looking for the right angle. He found what looked to be a way around the problem, and leant over to get a good look down the cue stick, protractor angles and force vectors swimming before his eyes. Dash it all, why were there two red balls and four white ones on the table instead of the usual one and two, respectively? Which one amongst all those balls was he supposed to hit, again? He rather thought it might not be a good idea to ask one of his companions, so he decided he would just do his best. He lined up the balls, pulled back his cue, and swung his arm forward as hard as he could.

But it seemed he must have miscalculated, because rather than the clicking and thudding of ivory balls, the sound of tearing fabric filled the air. Oh, dear. His cue stick had ripped a great gash across the felt, slicing the tabletop from stem to stern like a ghastly war wound. At least there was no blood, Bingley mused, but the padding and wood peeped out from the enormous rent like viscera and bone. Darcy closed his eyes in what Bingley could only assume was pain.

The Colonel laughed as though he had never seen anything so funny and walked around the table to throw his arm around Bingley's shoulders. "I say, old man, it looks as though we are through with billiards for the evening," he roared. Bingley closed his eyes and felt the Colonel guide him over to a chair near Darcy's window seat. At least he would not have to hunt. He really did hate hunting, chasing after that poor, adorable little fox...

Opening his eyes and glancing over at the scene of grisly billiard-table death, Bingley felt horribly ashamed, and also felt some pain on his friend's behalf. Another wound for poor ol' Darce. Perhaps a bit more brandy would soothe everyone's nerves. He fumbled for the decanter on the table next to him and reached over to refill Darcy's glass before holding the brandy aloft like a great prize of some sort to offer it to the Colonel. That man took it from his fist and filled Bingley's own glass before retreating to the scene of the devastation, perching cross-legged on the edge of the table, carafe in hand. Bingley thought he looked rather as though, if he crossed his arms and dipped his head genie-style, he might float off altogether, riding the table like a magic carpet. That would be more exciting than those cavalry charges he was always leading. Perhaps he could ride with him on the carpet.

"Colonel—"

"Archie. For God's sake, call me Archie, Bingley, how many times do I have to tell you?" The Colonel interrupted.

Bingley found that he just could not say it. "Hrrmph, Colonel, I wonder how many passengers can fit on a magic carpet?"

Bingley paused, glancing between the two cousins and wondering at the odd looks they were exchanging. Darcy coughed lightly and began tugging at his boots.

"Well, Bingley. It depends on what one is flying with as cargo," the Colonel chuckled. "Brandy and magic lanterns, or muskets and May flowers. Is there a thought you wish to share?"

"Well, yessh. There is." Bingley watched Darcy pull off his Hessians. Such fine leathers the man had in his closet. He should ask if he might visit his shoemaker. They could go together.

"Darcy, whilst you were away, I did my best to find myself an accomplished woman, just as you said," Bingley slurred. "But I failed. I fear I must be doing something wrong, my friend."

The Colonel inadvertently inhaled most of his mouthful of brandy when he began to guffaw loudly at this last remark. Really, Bingley could not understand what was so amusing about it. Once the Colonel had ceased coughing and caught his breath, he said, "Truly? Darcy is giving you advice about women? How rich!" And he laughed some more. Darcy gave him the evil eye but did not say a word to rebut his statement.

Bingley felt even more bewildered than before. "Why do you say that, friend? Darcy here has impeccable judgment in all things, it seems to me."

Again the Colonel snickered. "It seems he knows nothing of women. You must ignore any advice he has ever given you on this subject. And I would strongly suggest you reconsider any other counsel he may have given you on other subjects as well."

"Why would you joke about such a thing?" Bingley felt obliged to defend his friend from the Colonel's barbs, though he _had _himself begun to wonder...

"Bingley, do not trouble yourself. My cousin is quite right. Please forget all that I said to you before."

"But why?" Bingley's head was spinning. "Give me one good reason."

The Colonel chortled and said, "He has recently been shown quite forcefully that his judgment with regard to women is very flawed indeed. He suffered quite a setdown, in fact."

A lady? What _lady _would give Darcy a setdown? The only lady Bingley could think of whom Darcy might have encountered in Kent, one capable of giving him a setdown of any kind, was his aunt. What was her name, again? He knew that earlier in the evening Darcy had said her name, but it slipped his mind just now. Something beginning with a C. Lady Charlotte? Lady Celeste? Bingley could not for the life of him remember.

Trying to bluff his way through his confusion, Bingley inquired, "I am afraid I do not quite follow you. In what way were you mistaken about your aunt, Lady Kuh-hrrrrmph?" he mumbled, clearing his throat.

Darcy eyed him, perplexed. "My _aunt_?" The Colonel laughed again, and Darcy shot him a look that could have killed a horse at twenty paces. The Colonel clamped his lips together and his ruddy cheeks began to shade into a sort of burgundy color, or perhaps it was Bordeaux.

"Yes, the lady in Kent," Bingley muttered. Apparently he had got something wrong, but he could not put his finger on what just yet. Confused as he was about a lady offending Darcy, he was just relieved that his best-ever friend had not suffered fencing wounds or the raging boils said to spread from the dreaded French Disease.

"No, no, not our aunt, though of course she had a few choice words for both of us, as usual," replied the Colonel, refilling their brandy glasses with a practiced flip of the wrist. "No, Darcy received an earful from an entirely different feminine source."

Then Bingley remembered: the cousin. What was her name? He thought it began with an H. Or a D. Oh, if only he were better with names.

By Jove, that must be it! His Cousin Hermione or whatever her name was. Bingley struggled to remember the story, which Darcy had told him once when they had been out for a ride. Bingley had tried hard to pay attention, but there had been some particularly beautiful wildflowers in bloom that day, distracting him. Ah, it was beginning to come back to him now. There were expectations that Darcy would marry his cousin, yes, yes. He must have proposed to her, which was peculiar since Darcy had hinted he wanted nothing to do with her. And she had given him a setdown? Not accepted him? That seemed strange. He had thought she was a sickly, mousy girl.

"She turned you down? Incredible! That hardly seems in character. I thought you said she was _hoping _for your addresses! _Expecting _them, even! But were you not dead set against it, in any case? Why on earth did you propose to her?" Bingley slurred, his voice loud and excited.

"Why indeed?" laughed the Colonel.

"No wonder you are in such a foul temper," Bingley went on, speaking over Darcy, who was trying, without success, to get a word in edgewise. "Imagine! Imagine any woman saying no to such a splendid match! Let alone _her_." He noticed Darcy's face flushing bright red, with anger, it seemed. He must have hit the nail on the head. Capital!

How could this cousin of his have done such a thing, though? Was she, like Miss Elizabeth Bennet, oblivious to the charms of his good friend and his cleft chin? But Hermione was his cousin, she knew him, at least as well as anyone did. In a sitting-room sort of way. And had they not romped as children? Played games with the little Colonel? Bingley wondered if the Colonel had had such a magnificent mustache when he was a young boy. Likely not. Oh, but the girl cousin... Hermione. No! _Anne_, it was, of course, not Hermione! Anne, she was infirm, or something now, was she not? He could not recall the problem, exactly. Was she feeble-minded, or was she merely knock-kneed and consumptive?

Damn. Darcy had likely asked her to dance a reel, too, and her sickly constitution had revolted at the thought of touching his firm hands. What was it the Colonel—Archie, as that man was constantly urging Bingley to call him—had said about Anne? In looks she favored an ostrich who had gone hungry for too long and then swallowed an especially unpleasant leaf.

When had the man seen an ostrich? He had never been to Africa, as far as Bingley knew. But then one could never tell with military men. Bingley himself had only glimpsed an ostrich in one of Darcy's thick books, the animal encyclopaedia with etchings and drawings and flighty imaginings. It was his favorite. No Greek in that tome, just some Latin he could ignore because the pictures told the real story.

"Bingley... Bingley." Bingley looked up, caught out in his musings.

"If you wish to stay this evening, I have two requests for you. Ignore anything my cousin tells you, and set aside any angry words you hear from me." Darcy sighed, shakily. "It has been a trying few days." He sank down deeper into the window seat.

Bingley studied his friend. He did indeed look worn down, even taking into account the large volume of brandy Darcy had recently consumed. His face was pale and rather smudged under the eyes, which lacked their usual clarity and seemed smaller than normal, and also rather bloodshot. Dare he ask about these trying few days? Or should he take the lead in changing the course of conversation and ask about, say, something learned, about philosophy, or cheese, or perhaps sundials? Or those newfangled floating contraptions, hot air balloons?

Hot air balloons. Lovely things. He had seen them once or twice, but never had the nerve to ride in one himself. He imagined that the Colonel probably had, even if he had never been to Africa. Bingley wondered how the Colonel's parents felt about all his hot air balloon rides and other dangerous, swashbuckling adventures. Perhaps they were proud of him, or perhaps they were frightened and worried. Or maybe they took it as a matter of course since he was the madcap second son. Or perhaps they were wrapped up in their own affairs, and paid him no attention at all. Maybe they fought constantly. Oh, dear. How sad.

"Are your parents a happy pair, Colonel, er, Archie? Colonel Archie?" Bingley asked.

The Colonel jerked his head a bit, perhaps in surprise at this new topic of conversation or by Bingley's use of his Christian name. Bingley hoped his question had not been too impertinent. Perhaps not, because now the mustachioed one exchanged a bemused glance with his cousin. "Ah, my father is the brother of Lady Catherine in every way one can imagine. My mother is a lovely practitioner of amiability and accommodation."

Good. It seemed they did not argue all the time after all. "You are fortunate, to have them both, still, on this Earth," Bingley said, trying hard to suppress the tinge of sadness and envy he heard in his own quiet voice. He felt a tightness in his chest. It might actually have been his stomach, however, which was full only of brandy and a biscuit or two he had eaten in his own study earlier in the evening while hiding from Caroline and her latest malicious tale of the Ton. Oh, she was dreadful. She always had been.

"My own parents adored each other, or so I have been told," Darcy said wistfully. "I do not remember seeing them sharing time together often, but I was a mere boy. They appeared content. They were so happy when Georgie was born. I want to think that they were always so."

He sighed shakily, slumped down into the window seat, and turned his head toward the wall. "A love match, that is what a marriage should be."

What was that? Had Fitzwilliam Tiberius Darcy just said that marriage should be a love match? What about all that earlier talk about equality of station and doomful symmetry? Bingley opened his mouth to protest the odd circumstance of Darcy's indecisiveness, but then he heard an odd sound. His head swiveled. From his perch on the table, the Colonel had sighed. Bingley glanced over and found him looking thoughtfully at Darcy. His eyes betrayed an unexpected sadness, and seeing the gruff man's softening wrenched something loose inside him.

"My parents were a happy pair," Bingley said quietly. "As I recall it, my mother was all that was gentle and kind and my father would sing to her. Losing them both at once was horrible," he sniffed. He tearfully recounted the story of his parents' deaths. Darcy knew it well, of course.

Archie's eyes widened as he heard the sad tale unfold, and he looked to his cousin, panicked by Bingley's unexpected display of emotion.

Darcy, stretched out on the window seat, his stockinged feet up on the wall, had been preoccupied with drawing hearts and arrows on the glass. Now he turned and watched his friend. "It was tragic, Charles," he said gently, "but the smoke was thick and they did not suffer. And they were together."

"Bound in life and death," Bingley murmured.

"Bound by love," whispered Darcy.

There was a long silence in the room, with only the sounds of their breathing and the low rumble of an empty stomach or two.

In the quiet, the customary cacophony inside Bingley's head subsided rather more than usual. One bright, clear thought remained, and Bingley suddenly felt possessed of a powerful need to tell his friend something that had been percolating in the back of his mind for some time now, his conviction about it growing nearly unnoticed as time passed. He was not obliged to share it, he knew, since he had not precisely lost the wager at billiards, but he felt _moved _to do so. "Darcy, I have come to a conclusion. A very important conclusion, you know."

"What is that, Charles?"

"I was truly in love with Jane Bennet."

Darcy repositioned his legs higher on the wall and gestured just a bit dismissively with the hand not clutching his brandy glass. "You admired her excessively, but as I think we established—"

"No. No. I did admire her, yes. But she was so kind, so gentle. I was a better man when I was with her."

The Colonel looked at him with open curiosity. "What do you mean, Bingley?"

"I was more steady to my purpose. She gently, kindly, nudged me along, and kept my train of thought from..." He groped for just the right word, but it eluded his grasp.

Darcy sat up, and then rose unsteadily to his feet. He and Archie waited in silence, until the latter could stand it no longer and broke in, "Wandering?"

Bingley nodded vigorously and wished he had not. "Yes, just so. I was indeed in love with her, truly, as I never was before. I only admired all those other ladies, as you said. If only she had felt the same about me... Thank you, Darcy for keeping me from losing myself wholly to her, when she did not love me in return..."

Darcy turned away quickly, but not before Bingley noticed that his face was fiercely red, his handsome features contorted with emotion. Bingley could swear it was something like anger, or embarrassment, or remorse. This was indeed an unusual sight to behold. Bingley could not understand what might have inspired such feelings in his friend. Such an estimable, honest, honorable man surely would have no cause for them. Perhaps he, Bingley, had simply misinterpreted his expression. Perhaps he was simply flushed with modesty, although that did not seem very likely, either, now that he thought about it. Darcy turned his head to say something, still turned away so as not to meet Bingley's eye, but Bingley stood and cleared his throat, preventing Darcy from speaking.

Bingley spoke thickly, his head swimming with emotion and brandy, but he expressed himself with great passion. "Darcy, you stopped me before I could hand my heart to a lady who held no regard for me. That is true friendship. I am my grateful, my friend. My wonderful friend..."

Bingley took a halting step toward Darcy, who, his back still turned, was startled by the feel of his shorter friend's arms wrapping about his torso. He froze and averted his eyes from his cousin's mortified, laughing visage.

"Thank you, Dah..."

Darcy stumbled forward with the full weight of a drunk, sleeping Bingley on his back. He twisted around and pulled at Bingley's hands, clumsily depositing him onto the window seat. He lifted Bingley's feet and stretched him out onto the long padded bench.

"_Absentem laedit cum ebrio qui litigat_,"* mumbled Darcy.

Archie looked at Darcy with pity and said, "Well, cousin, that was quite a great revelation. You will have to tell him some time."

"Yes. I...I cannot bear to do it this evening." Darcy leaned against the wall with one hand, his head down in a pose of defeat, and gazed upon his sleeping friend.

The Colonel jumped down from his perch and clapped him on the back. "No, I think you have suffered enough humiliation for the next fortnight or so. Save it till later. Just imagine how exponentially his anger will have grown by the time all is revealed!"

Darcy flinched and took a few unsteady steps toward the near-empty decanter.

"Will you confess all to him, or only the parts which affect his heart? Does he have any idea what you have been grappling with all these many months?" Archie rubbed his stomach and gazed at his cousin's weary face. "You would feel far better if you ate something, Darce."

Darcy shook his head, then stopped at once and winced. "Archie, do you not understand? I do not wish to feel anything. I just want to stop thinking and remembering and castigating myself..." He poured the last of the golden liquid into his glass and stared at it. In a quiet voice, one which Archie strained to hear, he asked, "Is there not such a thing as true love? Is it possible for it to be felt only on one side?

"Which circle of hell is this?"

Bingley began snoring and curled up into a tight ball. The Colonel covered him with his discarded jacket and belched.

"Love's true arrow can never go awry, Darcy. The archer must practice but gains expertise and in the end, wins the heart he seeks. Or finds a new target."

Confused, Darcy rubbed his neck. "I have never asked, Archie. Do you speak of yourself? Have you been wounded by Cupid's arrow?"

The Colonel smirked and turned away. "Not as you have been, Darcy. Never been that clumsy with a declaration."

He snatched a cushion from the settee and restored himself to his perch atop the ruined billiards table. He stretched out, boots crossed at the ankles, laid his head on the purloined pad and groaned. "There was a blonde girl once, in Rouen, who caught my eye and nearly my heart."

Darcy sat down with a thud upon the settee. "But, when? I never knew," he asked plaintively.

"We all have our secrets, Darce. Yours are kept from Bingley, but given to me."

"And yours?"

"Mine go with me to the grave, for better or for worse."

Darcy's countenance shifted into an unmistakable pout. "Dammit, you know of my humiliation, of my heartbreak. You were there, nay, responsible for my introduction to the fair sex and to the havoc wreaked by brandy and wine," he stuttered, his words slurring as he grew impassioned. "You have seen me at my worst, as I am now, hopeless and grim. But all I can offer you is a chamber safe away from your parents' meddling?"

The Colonel shook his head. "Darce, I like your friend. He makes me laugh. But you are not my Bingley; you offer me so much more as a cousin and friend and confidant. I simply have not much to tell. I—" he hesitated and swallowed the last bit of his brandy. "I have not felt as you feel, I have not loved. I do not know if I have that capacity."

"I believe you do, Archie. You have an enormous heart. But I wonder if you nevertheless have the right of it—you may be right to protect yourself as you do. Perhaps I should learn from your example. Love may not be worth the risk," Darcy murmured. "Nor the pain."

"Perhaps. See if you still cling to this foolish notion in the light of day. But for now, let us ring for Parsons to tend to Bingley, and follow his example by setting off for the Land of Nod."

Darcy assented, and tugged on the bell pull. The two men staggered toward the door, the Colonel holding up his taller cousin as they made their way from the room. Neither of them noticed that Bingley, still on the bench and with one bleary but speculative eye open, watched them leave.

**~End of Part II~**

*_Absentem laedit cum ebrio qui litigat_: To quarrel with a drunk is to wrong a man who is not even there.

_If __you __know how much cargo a magic carpet can carry, or if there are any other slight misunderstandings you would like to straighten out for Bingley, please let us know by leaving us a review._


	3. Part III: Amantes sunt amentes

**The Most Interesting Man in the World**

**Part III: Amantes sunt amentes **

**(Lovers Are Lunatics)**

Caroline and Louisa had been completely unbearable all afternoon. Darcy had left the rest of the traveling party that morning at the inn where they had spent the night and ridden ahead to Pemberley to take care of some estate business. Or so he had said. Bingley wondered if in fact his great friend had simply had enough of listening to the Bickering Bingley Sisters. With great envy, Bingley had watched him gallop off as the sisters had sniped and gossiped and preened with increasing energy the farther away Darcy's figure had retreated. The carriage had become hotter and stuffier with each of their vile words. Eventually poor Georgiana had pleaded a headache and retreated to the other carriage, leaving Bingley to face his sisters alone. Oh, and of course there was Hurst, sawing logs in the corner. It hardly seemed fair, Bingley thought, that Darcy had escaped all this. But as his family were to be guests of the Darcys, and as poor Darcy would be fighting off Caroline's hints and swoons and fawning for the next fortnight, he could hardly begrudge his friend a bit of peace and quiet. But he did, a bit, just to himself.

Finally, though, after one too many stories about how _very low _and _unfashionable _Caroline found one of her _very best, dearest_ friends, Bingley was rather shocked to discover he, too, had had enough. That so rarely happened. He decided that he, too, would ride ahead. He thought that if he had to spend one more moment listening to Caroline and Louisa criticize all the ladies in London, he might just explode. Well, probably he would not, not really. The thought of spontaneously combusting inside the carriage struck him as being rather amusing, actually. What looks of horror would his sisters wear, he wondered, as they watched him go up in flames? Probably Hurst would not react at all, since he seemed to be catatonic, but maybe the noise and smoke would wake him. Still, that was best avoided, in any case.

So when they changed horses after stopping for tea, he left the carriage and, like his great friend, rode ahead. He was not proud of this decision. In fact, he felt terrible leaving Georgiana to them, but it could not be helped. It was worrisome, however, that Darcy might not be so forgiving of Bingley's leaving Georgiana behind as a sacrificial lamb. He would have to concoct a reasonable explanation for his actions, and hope that Georgiana would arrive unscathed. The party was due to arrive at Pemberley mid-morning the next day, so she would have to fend for herself until then. Georgiana had said that she did not mind, and that she would tell Caroline and the Hursts that she was still feeling ill and wished to rest in the second carriage for the duration of the trip. That still left the evening meal and a dreadful few hours in a sitting room at the inn...but it was too late for regrets. The die was cast.

Daylight was just beginning to fade as Bingley rode up the long, sweeping drive to Pemberley's great house. Darkness came late here in the North. Bingley's stomach growled and his mouth watered in anticipation of the tasty treats that Mrs. R. doubtless had at the ready this evening.

After he had left his horse at the stable, Bingley bounded into the house and received word from the servant who opened the door that Darcy was in his study. When Bingley found him there, Darcy was pacing around in a daze. His clothing was hanging rather haphazardly from his body, and his hair was positively standing on end, as though he had failed even to begin his usual long and complicated toilette. Most peculiar of all, he also appeared to be slightly damp. Or perhaps more precisely he appeared once to have been damp, and now to have dried in a most crumpled and bedraggled manner. And a strange and hopeful look on his face, one such as Bingley had never before seen there, filled Bingley with curiosity and amusement.

"Bingley!" cried Darcy, a smile wreathing his face. "What a wonderful surprise! I was not expecting you until tomorrow morning!" Bingley thought this was interesting, since Darcy usually greeted him with warmth, but not with this sort of enthusiasm.

His friend's happiness immediately lifting his own mood, Bingley clapped Darcy on the shoulder and cried, "Darcy! What has you so very jolly, old friend? You are positively glowing! Have you got into the brandy again? It is not yet dark outside!"

Darcy flushed to the tips of his ears. "What? No, no, nothing like that. Simply glad to be home and all that." Bingley was not completely sure of it, since he was no expert at reading others' expressions, but it seemed to him that if he did not know better he would say that Darcy was, well...lying. Not to put too fine a point on it.

Bingley considered this for a moment just to make certain. No, it could not be. Bingley realized he had never, not even once, caught Darcy up in anything remotely close to a fib, a white lie, or any sort of untruth. True, his friend often shared facts selectively with him. But certainly he would not tell a bald-faced lie about something that had him positively humming with excitement. Well, Bingley would be patient, and all would be revealed.

He was now very, very glad that he had ridden ahead, in spite of his earlier feelings of guilt about leaving Georgiana. He would now have all evening, and even the early morning hours, to squeeze, wring, or wrestle the truth out of his friend before they were interrupted by the others. Things could only turn sour once his sisters had arrived. Best to work his wiles now and firm up Darcy's happy foundation. My God, he was smiling, no—beaming! It was that toothy grin he had seen last January, and not once since, not even when they had had their billiards night with old Archie. The cleft in Darcy's chin disappeared when he smiled? Interesting. Now you see it, now you don't...

Darcy cleared his throat and spoke with what seemed to Bingley to be feigned nonchalance. "Bingley, I hesitate to bring this up for reasons that will become evident. But the most peculiar thing happened this afternoon. I am sure you shall never guess who was here when I arrived."

Bingley thought about this for a few moments and tried to think of the least likely person Darcy might have encountered upon his arrival at Pemberley. "Napoleon Bonaparte? Beau Brummel? Er, Cicero?" Knowing Darcy, this had to involve Latin and some damn Roman.

"Do not be absurd, Charles. You know very well that Cicero is dead. Still, you truly shall never guess, so I shall have to tell you. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner." Darcy bit his bottom lip and nodded. "The ones from Cheapside."

Bingley was indeed stunned. How many times in the previous eight months, indeed since the 26th of November last, had he thought of Miss Jane Bennet? At first, he saw now, he had tried to deny that he had ever had any real feelings for her, and had let his admiration for his friend, Darcy, and his desire to be more like his friend, overrule his own good sense on that subject. Not that he really had good sense about anything, he reflected. He was far more likely to trust others' judgment than to rely on his own poor powers of discernment. But still, he had been right to listen to Darcy with regard to dear Jane. There was no doubt about it, none at all. Nevertheless, thinking about her always left him feeling full of regret—a most unusual and uncomfortable sensation for Bingley, who was used to bouncing through life for the most part untouched by the dramas, tragedies, and tensions that made up other people's lives. It made Caroline angry. She always had such purpose in her words and in her stride, yet she had to depend on him—the man of the family—to lead their way in the world. It had hardened her eyes, he thought.

But why was he thinking about Caroline when Darcy was talking about the Bennets? Here was a chance to hear more about dear Jane from her sister. Suddenly he was so excited he could hardly bear it. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet is here?" Oh, it felt so wonderful to say "Bennet" out loud instead of just mouthing the word—with Jane's name appended to it—in front of the mirror.

"Not here. Not here now. She w_as_ here, visiting the park."

Oh. Bingley was crestfallen. Here and gone, and without her sister. Why had she been here? Had she left word for him, for the dolt who did not understand love or recognize her sister's worth or grasp how to parry and thrust? Verbally, anyway?

"But why here?"

Darcy's face turned a deep crimson. "They were on holiday, er, _are _on holiday and touring the area. Miss Elizabeth's aunt is from Lambton. You know, the village just outside Pemberley. They are here for a visit with old friends."

Bingley stared at his friend, astonished at the wealth of information he had gleaned. "You spent some time with them?"

"No, no, no," Darcy explained quickly, shaking his head. "Well, yes. Some. Charles, excuse me. You have come all this way, you are still in your traveling clothes, and I have yet to offer you a drink. Please, sit down." He gestured to one of the leather wingback chairs he favored. All his homes were littered with them. "May I order you some tea, or perhaps some—?

"Brandy. I would like a brandy."

"Brandy? Surely you must have something to eat first. Would brandy agree with you after that long ride in the hot sun?" Darcy inquired, his brow furrowed.

Darcy was worried about his boots or his rugs or his billiard table, Bingley realized. Well, fair enough, although he wished to protest that he had always been able to hold his liquor, unlike some men he could name. Still, Bingley would _indeed _like some brandy, especially considering how concerned he was that Darcy might at any time ask him where Georgiana was. What on earth would he say when Darcy asked? Quickly, man, think up some excuse! Maybe he could distract Darcy by talking about something else. What was it that Darcy had said? Oh, yes! How could he have forgotten? Miss Elizabeth!

"Yes, Darcy. Brandy. It has been a long day and you have a story to tell. I must know everything about Miss Elizabeth's visit. I should like to have seen her."

Darcy handed his friend a glass of brandy and picked up his own cup of tea. "Shall I have some food sent in?"

"Oh, yes, please. What do you have on hand? Do you suppose the kitchen has any of those pastries I love so? Perhaps some sausages, or a partridge? Oh, or Cook's lovely scalloped potatoes...What about some of those delicious sticky buns or her famous berry tarts?" Bingley realized that this might be a bit too much to ask for, considering, but he was ravenously hungry by now.

Darcy was well acquainted with Bingley's enormous appetite, so he merely nodded and rang for Mrs. Reynolds. "Yes, excellent idea. If you plan to drink brandy, Bingley, you must get some food in your stomach first."

"Oh, that reminds me, Darce, what is the damage on your billiards table?" Bingley flushed, thinking about the table he had left in ruins earlier in the spring. He cleared his throat. "Well, I know what the _damage _was. What I mean is, how much do I owe you for its repair?"

"Nonsense, Charles. You owe me nothing. We had had quite a bit to drink that evening, and if you had not done the honors then surely Archie or I would have done so sooner or later. Damn soldiers' drinking games."

Bingley shook his head in disbelief. He could not imagine his talented friend eviscerating a billiards table. Not unintentionally, anyway. "No, never. Please let me take care of it, old chap."

"No, no. Truly, never mind. All in a good night's fun," Darcy pooh-poohed.

That _had _been an interesting evening, Bingley reflected with some nostalgia. Not that he remembered it very clearly, of course. He recalled something about the Colonel, er, Archie, flying around on a magic carpet. That could not really have happened, of course. Could it? No, no, that must have been the brandy talking. Something about a hot air balloon, as well, and that seemed a bit more likely than the magic carpet ride, although still it seemed improbable that they had actually taken flight right there in Darcy's townhouse. Also something about an ostrich. In any case, the material point here was something that had happened, he thought, after the hot air balloon episode, and that was the conversation he vaguely remembered overhearing between Darcy and the Colonel. Archie. Perhaps he had dreamed it, of course, along with the Colonel and his genie's magic carpet, but he thought not.

It seemed to him that it had been a weighty and important conversation indeed, but he could not quite recall the subject. Something that Darcy was not telling him, he thought. Something to do with a woman? Darcy never had said precisely what had happened with his cousin, Anne, in Kent. And come to think of it, he never had come right out and confirmed that it had been his cousin Anne at all. Perhaps it was some other lady who had turned Darcy down. Imagine that! If only he could reach through the brandy-induced haze to retrieve the memory of exactly what the two cousins had been talking about...

Bingley's train of thought was interrupted by Mrs. Reynolds' entrance into the study. After a proper hello was exchanged between Mrs. Reynolds and her favorite _bon vivant_, Bingley inquired about the availability of his dreamed-for meal and was delighted to discover that nearly all of it was already waiting in the kitchen. She was well acquainted with his culinary tastes and had planned to have everything ready for his arrival the next day. She clucked and fussed a bit because the berry tarts would not be ready till morning. Bingley suddenly realized Mrs. R likely was curious about Georgiana's whereabouts, and was sorely relieved when she bustled out of the room without inquiring about her.

After her departure, the friends settled into their chairs by the window. Darcy's knee was bouncing up and down, Bingley noted with surprise. How annoying. No wonder his sisters, his aunts and Darcy himself constantly chastised him, Bingley, about his own free-spirited limbs.

Limbs. He remembered Darcy's limbs, his legs in particular, stretched high up on the wall that evening, the evening of the billiards contest for the ages. He had looked so relaxed then, even elegant in his drunken melancholy, whilst he was agitated now. Rather as he had been back on that long, cold night in January when they had discussed his verbal parries with Miss Elizabeth. What had that been about, anyway?

"Darce, tell me about Miss Elizabeth's visit. Did you know she would be here, at Pemberley? Was it a surprise or a planned _rendez-vous_?" He waggled his eyebrows to emphasize his clever joke.

"For God's sake, Charles. What do you imply? A 'planned _rendez-vous_?' Miss Elizabeth and I are merely acquaintances, in a tenuous sort of manner. She is traveling with her aunt and uncle, they stopped here, walked the gardens and encountered me only because I arrived a day earlier than expected. They in fact believed none of the family was here." Darcy glared at Bingley, his face flushed and eyes bright. He clanked his cup down on the saucer with no little agitation, and poured a bit of brandy into a nearby glass. He eyed it and then took a deep swallow.

"In what manner did you encounter her? Them?"

"Oh. I rode in, was a bit overheated in the sun, and stopped by the pond. Aeschylus needed a drink," Darcy hurriedly explained.

The Greek steed. That fine piece of horse flesh had a sweet disposition and a white heart-shaped dot on the tip of his nose, and Darcy had named him after a poet instead of something truly memorable like Avenger or Sport or Thunder? The man was hopeless.

"Did your horse push you into the pond? Is that why you are still a bit damp?"

Darcy froze.

"Good God, Darcy! Did Miss Elizabeth see you this way, sodden and disheveled?"

"Of course not. I had changed my clothing." Darcy abruptly stood and walked over to the ornate mirror hanging across the room. He grimaced at his reflection and began smoothing back his hair. He straightened his coat and turned around.

"In any case, Charles, Miss Elizabeth and her family are still in Lambton." Upon hearing this, Bingley heaved a great sigh of relief and then tried to cover it up by rubbing his stomach in a gesture of exaggerated hunger. He would still have a chance to hear news of Jane. Darcy continued, "I have made arrangements to see them tomorrow morning at the inn where they are staying. After Georgiana arrives, that is. Would you like to join us?"

Georgiana? Why did Darcy wish to introduce Georgiana to Miss Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle? She was so shy, it would be torture for her, surely. In any case, Bingley did not wish to talk about Georgiana, and in particular about why and how he had left her at the mercy of his awful sisters. Never mind that, then. The important thing was, did he want to visit with Miss Elizabeth tomorrrow? By Jove, yes, he did!

"Oh, yes, indeed!" he burst out before continuing on with barely suppressed excitement. "I mean, that sounds capital. It will be delightful to see her again after all this time. I hope her family is well," he added politely. Her family—especially Jane, of course. Oh, it really was tragic that she had never shared his feelings, the warmth and love and admiration.

"Yes, she said that they are indeed well," Darcy replied. "A number of times," he murmured, smiling slightly.

She said who was what? Lost in his daydream about Jane, Bingley could not remember, but he supposed it did not matter over much.

"I say, old man, perhaps I can learn a thing from observing the two of you about how to spar and jab with a lady. You and Miss Elizabeth have a great talent for spirited conversation. Perhaps I can learn from you both, and it can help me capture the right lady's heart, you know," he exclaimed with great jocularity. He still had some doubts about this, of course, and whether that was really what he was looking for in a lady. But he supposed he should jolly Darcy along on this, since it seemed to be what Darcy was seeking in a mate.

"Honestly, Bingley, you make it sound as though I have some sort of interest in Miss Bennet. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am appalled that you would even joke about such a thing."

Oh, dear. Perhaps he had gone too far. Darcy had always made it abundantly clear just exactly what he thought of Miss Elizabeth. So what exactly _was _he looking for in a lady, besides all those things he had listed back in January? Love, connection, sparring, kismet, blah, blah, blah. Where was that blasted food?

As if on cue, Mrs. Reynolds suddenly bustled back into the study followed by four footmen straining under the weight of huge platters of food, which they set down on the sideboard next to the fire. Bingley saw that all of his favorites were indeed included, and he eyed them like a hawk studying a particularly fat and juicy-looking rat. Bingley could barely refrain from hurling himself at the delicious-smelling repast while the servants removed the covers from the dishes. As soon as was decently possible, he began heaping mounds of meat and pies and starchy things onto his plate, his mouth watering. Darcy followed, albeit with less apparent gusto. It seemed he, too, had not yet dined, although it was rather later than he usually took his evening meal.

Once Bingley had sat down in his armchair and caused the food on his plate to vanish in a remarkable act of prestidigitation, he rested his plate on his knee and relaxed back into his chair to gather his energy for a second round of epic epicureanism. He hoped that Darcy would join him, since Bingley thought he looked a bit peaked, his customary manly glow somewhat dimmed by strain or hunger or whatever it was that had been on his mind lately.

Darcy shook him out of his mid-prandial stupor by saying, "I never did ask, Bingley, what brought you here earlier than expected? What moved you to ride ahead?"

Oh, no, thought Bingley, here they come. The questions about Georgiana! Deflect! Deflect!

"Oh, nothing, really. Caroline and Louisa were up to their usual tricks—vicious falsehoods, baseless rumors and gutting criticisms. You know. Caroline in particular was also rattling on about decorations, and furniture, and wall coverings...I must admit I was paying as little attention as I could while appearing to listen to her go on."

Suddenly it struck Bingley that in fact she had been making plans not for decorating their own townhouse, but for Pemberley. She had said something about Lady Anne's old rooms...

"Good God, Darcy, you did not give Caroline any encouragement, did you? I know that you were feeling rather low after your visit to your Aunt, uh, Clementine...?" Darcy had not been so distraught after his cousin's refusal of his proposal that he had done something stupid, had he?

"Catherine. My Aunt Catherine. And, no, I did not."

"Perhaps it was something you said by accident? Such as needing a sharp-eyed woman who knew her fabrics and vendors to tend to Pemberley's furnishings? Or perhaps in passing you admired one of her ridiculous hats?" Bingley leaned to his left to cast his eye upon the sideboard, sighing at the neatly arranged platters of steaming meats and sticky pastries and ohhhh...scalloped potatoes. He had not noticed those before. And sausages.

"No, of course not. Never, on either count." Darcy shook his head and, if Bingley was not mistaken—and there was a good chance he was because his stomach has begun emitting an ungentlemanly rumbling—his esteemed friend's nostrils flared. Aha!

Bingley was seized by two warring feelings. Three, if he counted the desperate impulse to spear himself some more parsnips and some cheese and a large slab of that venison. This third feeling speedily overcame the other two, and so he jumped up and positively skipped to the sideboard. As he piled the sausages and parsnips and other steaming delicacies onto his plate, he mused upon those two remaining feelings.

On the one hand, he was somewhat pleased at, and interested in, the idea of Darcy and his sister as a pair. He had never for a moment seriously considered that Darcy might actually make a match with Caroline. Darcy had always made it clear that he thought Caroline was far beneath him, and that he could do better. Although occasionally there had been a hint, here and there, about him, Bingley, and Georgiana...ha! Not likely. She was a lovely young woman, a girl, really, but far too retiring for Bingley's tastes. No, she could never guide him and nudge him to stay on task the way Jane had. He needed that, he realized now. Oh, but Caroline. No, he knew she and Darcy did not suit. Although they did spar, and Darcy had said he liked that. But what a delight to consider the possibility that he and Darcy might truly be brothers! To know that forever more they would always be together, as a family, as the dearest of chums, and that nothing, not even death, could separate them! Well, maybe death. Darcy would certainly end up in heaven, but Bingley was not so sure where he himself might go, so selfishly had he left Georgiana to be set upon by his sisters. Yet only imagine all that he could learn from Darcy in the years and months to come, all the ways in which he could grow to be more like Darcy, if only they were to become brothers!

On the other hand, however, Bingley had some grievous concerns about the matter, and he thought on the whole these concerns outweighed the advantages. Namely, if they were to become brothers, this meant that he, Bingley, would have to spend prodigious amounts of time with Caroline. After all, he could hardly see Darcy, visit Darcy's house, without seeing Caroline, if they were married. That would never, never do. He had spent far too many years looking forward to her marriage and her exit from his own household. No, in spite of the certain benefits to having Darcy as his brother, he must end this now, if in fact there was something to end. Bingley unbuttoned his waistcoat and took a deep breath. The loosened clothing and the ability to breathe brought with it greater clarity and a return to his senses.

What was he thinking?! Darcy saw Caroline's true colors—though intelligent and accomplished, she was petty, insecure and often cruel. She would make him desperately unhappy and drive him to drink. What was it the man had said back in January, on that long-ago night, about suitability trumping love? Yet in April he would not stop babbling on about love matches. So which was it? Was Darcy confused or had he come to his senses as well? The fellow had a book on every subject known to man. And he had read them all! The two theories were diabolically, er...diametrically opposed. He had to make some inquiries on the topic.

But first, some cream cakes. And one of those duck pasties, surely he could fit that onto the plate as well. And more brandy. He caught Darcy's eye and gestured to the bottle on the sideboard. Darcy shook his head and reached for the plum tart on his own plate. He stared at it and a small smile lit up his face before he took a healthy bite. Bingley had not seen his friend eat with such relish since he had grown 18 inches and put on two stone during his last year at Eton. He rejoined his friend, easing down into his chair with an eye on the food piled precariously on his own plate, and they ate in companionable silence for a moment.

"Bingley, no matter what your sister may think, I shall never marry her." Bingley was a bit mystified at why Darcy was back on that subject again. He had thought they had covered that already. Perhaps not, though. He could not remember any longer what he had _said_, and what he had only _thought_. "And I say that with the greatest respect, of course."

"Naturally, naturally," Bingley nodded in relief. He was not offended. He knew his sisters were dreadful. They always had been. Caroline was an especially unpleasant, shrewish sort of girl.

As the two men ate, the rich, fatty food sank them deeper and deeper into a comfortable, slothful state that only encouraged the exchange of confidences.

Eventually Bingley could not resist talking about the subject that always floated near the surface of his consciousness: Miss Jane Bennet. Of course he could not speak of her directly, so instead he chose to speak of her sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and their impending visit with her. "Darcy, where do Miss Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle stay tonight?"

"In Lambton, at the Royal Goat. We shall call there tomorrow, as I said, as soon as Georgiana arrives. Miss Elizabeth expressed a wish to meet her," Darcy added softly.

"Did she, now?" How interesting, he thought, and wondered why she had done so. Perhaps she wished to meet the young lady whom Caroline had held up as the paragon of accomplished womanhood. Miss Elizabeth was a jolly good girl, he decided. He liked a person who could identify admirable traits in another person and then try to emulate them. Rather like himself, Bingley thought.

Bingley glanced over at Darcy, who seemed to be residing, as he often did, on a different celestial plane, one swarming with men in togas shouting about big ideas and stomping about in impatience with those who would prefer a nice game of whist or cricket. Bingley wondered what the men in Darcy's head were debating this evening. The nature of Justice? The Good? He wished again that he had studied Latin more assiduously so that he could understand what it was they were saying. On the other hand, maybe he should just have another pasty instead. He felt that he had a bit of room left, and it would please Mrs. R if he ate his fill.

"Charles, forgive me if you have already answered this question, but where is my sister?"

Oh, no. Why did he feel as though he had been caught unawares when in fact he had been dreading just this moment all evening? He had not earlier told Darcy in detail what had become of Georgiana, but then Darcy had not asked so directly prior to now. How should he paint this picture so that all were happily portrayed? "Er, as you know, I needed to ride ahead and clear my mind. It has a been a difficult few months." Eight, to be exact, he thought with just a touch of bitterness.

"Your sister was enjoying the slower pace of travel and her conversations with her companion. Interesting woman, your Mrs. Annesley. Did you know she has a secret recipe for white soup? She was regaling your sister with tales of her nieces' wedding foibles. They were quite entertained in their own carriage."

Bingley bit his lip. He was not skilled in hyperbole, and he had stretched his story as far as it would go without breaking, aided only by the meager intelligence he had gleaned by dint of hearing Georgie laugh aloud once, and ask a question about Mrs. Annesley's family. But Darcy seemed satisfied.

"They are making good time and will arrive in the morning?" Darcy looked a tad anxious. Oddly, his anxiety seemed to be more about the projected time of arrival than about Georgiana's well-being. How extraordinary.

"Oh yes."

Bingley blew out a great puff of breath in relief and would have wiped his brow if he had not thought Darcy would notice. No chastisement. Wonderful.

The edge of Bingley's hunger was just now beginning to dull a bit—only a bit, mind you—so he rose to fetch himself some more sausages and some additional potatoes. He hesitated and then added a bit of apple compote. Jane would have urged him to have some fruit, he thought. She had been so particular about the importance of fruit, always gently mentioning something about how it helped keep one from losing one's teeth as the men on sailing ships did. Granted, he was not currently residing on a sailing ship, but still he thought he would much rather keep his teeth, so he took Jane's advice and had some apples.

Plumping back down in his leather chair, which now seemed rather slippery and difficult to remain upright in, Bingley sighed a great, happy sigh and tucked in. He speared a huge sausage on his fork and took an enormous bite, as befitted such a great sausage. It was delicious, juicy and meaty, and full of spices he could not name. Fennel? Frankincense? Myrrh? He was not sure.

"Darcy, how did you find Miss Elizabeth's relatives?"

Startled, Darcy sat up and stared at Bingley. "I told you, they were touring the gardens. Not far from the pond."

The pond again? He had fallen in, now Bingley was sure of it. He had probably said something in Latin to a horse who knew only Greek.

"Darcy," he articulated slowly, to give Darcy time to take in what he was saying, "I meant, what sort of people were they, the aunt and uncle?"

"Oh." Darcy, who had been worrying his serviette, set it down upon his empty plate and stared at the cloth as it slowly fell out of its twisted, malformed shape. "They were quite interesting. She is from Lambton, as I believe I said before, and he owns some warehouses in Cheapside. Seemed to be quite knowledgeable about business affairs and is fond of fishing."

Bingley stared, amazed at his friend's unusual loquacity. "Did you entertain them in the house?"

"No, no. We walked a bit through the gardens. Mrs. Gardiner was fatigued and they declined my offer of tea so they could return to the village." Darcy stood and walked over to the window to stare outside at the darkening night sky. "I thought it might be a fine idea to invite the gentleman here for some fishing." He turned back to Bingley as if to observe his response to this intelligence.

"Capital, Darcy, capital! I so look forward to that!" Bingley waved his hands about enthusiastically, mindless of the knife and fork he still held. The giant sausage arced through the air like a bovine projectile recently released from a catapult.

Darcy watched warily, his eyes following the sausage as it flew. "Charles, please, mind the carpet. And the paintings." Well, there was not much he could do about the sausage now, seeing as he did not know where it had landed. As fast as he could, he polished off the remaining meat on his plate. And the apples.

"Oh. My apologies, old man." My God, Bingley thought, he sounds like Caroline, lecturing me and correcting me. Bingley snickered as he imagined Darcy yelling at him in a shrill, high-pitched voice. He stopped when he felt Darcy's perplexed eyes on him. Quickly pulling himself together, Bingley pivoted to a topic of real interest.

"Darce, I never did ask before we left London. Where is the Colonel, Archie, I mean, these days? Why has he not accompanied us here? To escape the summer heat in town and all that, you know."

Hands clasped behind his back, Darcy raised his eyebrow and cocked his head at Bingley. "I really cannot say. That is to say, I do not know. I believe he is off on some sort of top-secret mission or maneuver. He must not speak of these things to anyone, of course."

Bingley nodded conspiratorially. He hoped that the Colonel was safe, wherever it was that his hot air balloon was taking him this time. Timbuktu? The Peninsula? The East End? He scraped up the last bit of scalloped potato.

"Ohhhh..." Bingley groaned, clapping his plate on the table next to him. At last he finally felt full. It was even possible he might have eaten a bit more than he ought. He flopped back into his chair and rubbed his stomach. "I am not sure I can walk to my room. Darcy, you must call for a footman to carry me!"

Darcy laughed. Yes! He laughed. How rare a sight that was these days. It cheered Bingley to his toes to hear the sound of his friend's laughter. Well, if all it took to make his friend happy was a trip to Pemberley, a good meal, and the prospect of visiting with Miss Elizabeth Bennet in the morning, so much the better. That was simple enough. Bingley would see to it that Darcy had cause to laugh more often, he thought, as, satisfied, content, and so very, very, full, he relaxed even deeper into the chair.

Of course he, himself, was rather anxious to see Miss Elizabeth and to hear news of her dear sister, Jane. He hoped that Jane was well, even if she did not love him as he loved her. He hoped that she had not already married, started a new life, found happiness with another man. Surely such a man would not appreciate her goodness, kindness, gentleness the way that he, Bingley, did. _That _man did not deserve her at all, that man she had married. But wait! He did not know for a fact that she had married anyone just yet. Perhaps there was still hope for him, Bingley, after all. He must find out. Yes, that was what he would do, tomorrow, when he met Miss Elizabeth Bennet at the Royal Goat. He would use his investigative powers to discover all he could about Miss Jane Bennet. Perhaps she was still a maid. It had only been above eight months, after all. Perhaps he could find a way to see her again, to discern whether there was any way that such a lovely, devoted, gentle, kind, dear, wonderful, poised woman could ever be persuaded to love a man such as he. He had little to recommend himself, he knew, but he had come to realize that he could not do without her.

Yes, that was what he must do. It would not hurt to ask about Jane. He had nothing to lose, except perhaps a bit of pride, and he was not too concerned about all this pride business in any case, not like some people he could name. He was determined. And, once determined, he was content, sure of his path.

Bingley closed his eyes, his hands folded over his belly, and let out a great soughing snore.

Darcy sighed. He rang the bell and contemplatively watched Bingley sleep. The poor fellow was no doubt exhausted both from his ride and from the vast, vast amount of food he had recently consumed. Just as Bingley began to lose his fight against gravity and seemed sure to slide entirely off the chair and onto the floor, his head dangling over the chair arm, Darcy's man, Parsons, came into the room.

"Please have Bingley conveyed to his usual room, Parsons. There is a sausage under the table and, I believe, a duck pasty wedged between the cushions of his chair. That will be all—I shall see myself to my rooms." He hauled himself to his feet with some difficulty and made his way out of the study and up the stairs to the family rooms, a small smile playing on his lips. He eyed his bed, thinking that undoubtedly it would be a long and sleepless night, but not of the sort to which he had been accustomed of late, the kind filled with anxiety and hopelessness. This would be different, full of happy anticipation at the thought of seeing Miss Elizabeth Bennet in the morning. He reached for the small leather pouch recently unpacked by his man and laid atop his bureau. He pulled out the delicate handkerchief and hair ribbon and sat down on his bed gazing at them.

Elizabeth.

**~End of Part III~**

_If you think you know why Darcy was slightly damp, please share your top-secret intelligence with us by leaving us a review._


	4. Part IV: Amare et sapere vix deo concedi

**The Most Interesting Man in the World**

**Part IV: Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur **

**(Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time)**

Colors were brighter, food was tastier, the air fresher, and brandy, thought Bingley, even sweeter and more beckoning to his palate now that he was an engaged man. He could hardly wait to share the joy of his good news with his best friend! Darcy had sent word earlier that he was on his way back from London, for reasons he had not made clear. It did not matter. Bingley was bursting with excitement.

Finally the man arrived on Aeschylus, riding up the drive at Netherfield just as the sky was darkening. Bingley bounced out to meet him, hardly waiting till the reins had been handed over to the stableboy before rushing to share the glad tidings of his engagement to Jane.

Darcy was, of course, full of smiles and warm congratulations. Bingley might dare to call the man gregarious in his bear hug and handshake. He knew Darcy was pleased to see him so happily settled, but even he could see that the tall, brooding man had yet to forgive himself for prolonging the distance between Bingley and his angel. After Darcy had shaken the dust off and washed up a bit, the two men made their way to Bingley's study for a celebratory drink.

As settled as Bingley was in his own happiness—enhanced by the memory of that sweet kiss his Jane had allowed him just this afternoon—one glance at Darcy, standing tensely at the window of the study, gazing out at the darkness covering Netherfield's park, and twisting that fine signet ring, reminded him that not everyone enjoyed such serenity. Oh, poor Darcy, surrounded by the happiness of two Bennet sisters and their mother's effusions. Lydia and her new husband were still in the throes of bliss in their newly wedded status; Mrs. Bennet was in raptures over her handsome son-in-law and his fine red coat. Bingley supposed that his new sister's natural ebullience would keep the pair joyful for years, even through the hardships caused by the constant separation and reunification inevitably resulting from his new commission in the Regulars. And had he not overheard Mr. Bennet proclaiming Wickham to be his favorite son-in-law, at least to date? Odd, then, that the wedding had been such a quiet affair in London.

He glanced at Darcy. His friend, he could see now, had been hesitant when he had entered Netherfield. Although Bingley had made it clear Darcy was welcome to visit at any time, and he had emphasized he wished for Darcy's quick return, his friend's nervous agitation was unsettling. Especially in light of his own great joy and happiness. Earlier today, he had had a difficult time restraining himself from dancing a jig. In fact, even now he thought he might burst into song at the slightest provocation.

But it had been a close thing, really. He recalled with only a small amount of remaining bitterness the evening some ten days before when, over brandy and some delicious sandwiches right here in this very room, Darcy had revealed to him the great secret that he had withheld from Bingley for so long. It had been quite an evening.

"Bingley," Darcy had begun, haltingly, "I greatly regret that I must tell you...that is to say, there is something for which I must apologize...Ahem, I must confess, that to my great regret, I kept an important piece of information from you whilst we were in Town during the winter."

"Oh, and what was that?" Bingley had asked with some curiosity. Darcy never apologized for anything, because he never did anything that warranted it, paragon that he was. What could have brought this on? Was he worked up about something that was not really his fault? And was it significant that he had gulped down not one, but two, glasses of brandy in rapid succession before beginning his little speech?

With a pained expression on his handsome face, Darcy had just managed to squeeze out, "Ahem. Miss Bennet, that is Miss _Jane _Bennet, was in London in January, and she called upon your sisters. They also returned her call. We, I, hid this fact from you."

For once, Bingley was struck dumb. He had merely stared at Darcy, unbelieving, the hand holding his brandy glass suspended in mid-air for some time.

Finally, he had felt capable of speech again. "Why?"

Darcy had hung his head. He had slowly raised it as he told the tale of the sisters' scheme and his own duplicity in it, well-intentioned as it was, to guard Bingley's easily given heart from a beautiful woman of no great means nor great emotion, and from her mother and her loudly proclaimed excitement about his income. "Honestly, Charles. I noticed only Miss Bennet's calm exterior, not grasping that she assumed a façade of indifference to hide great feeling, just as I have done so often. I failed you. I am deeply sorry."

Yes, Bingley had been angry. But this was his dear friend, after all. He had been looking out for his, Bingley's, best interests. It was a trespass that he could, at least in time, forgive.

Bingley had given his friend a serious look over the top of his glass and said thoughtfully, "Darcy, as long as this is all there is to it, I believe we can put this behind us and think of a happier future."

But Darcy had said, heavily, "Much to my regret, Charles, there is still more."

Oh, dear.

And he had told Bingley a long and confusing tale about Miss Elizabeth, and his struggles with his feelings for her. Aha! That explained a few things that Bingley had been a bit confused about earlier, including, perhaps, that mysterious conversation he might have overheard between Darcy and the Colonel. Darcy had confessed that the woman to whom he had proposed in Kent was not his cousin Anne at all, but Miss Elizabeth. He had confessed that Miss Elizabeth had told him then, lo those many months ago, that Jane had been in love with him, Bingley, all along, and that his effort to divide them was only one amongst the many reasons Miss Elizabeth had rightly rejected his stupid, ungentlemanly, indefensible proposal of marriage. His interference in Bingley's affairs had been officious, reprehensible, and hypocritical. He was filled with remorse for his actions. He had begged Bingley's pardon.

Again Bingley had been stunned into silence for some moments. Then, crashing his brandy glass down onto the table, he had stood and burst forth with a great bellow of rage. How could Darcy have separated him from Jane for all these months? How could he have withheld the intelligence about Jane's feelings for him? How could he, who had always held himself to the highest standards of truth and honor, have told Bingley such bald-faced lies? How could he have kept silent for nearly a year about his own feelings for Miss Elizabeth, not sharing this most important matter with Bingley, his best friend? Bingley had raged on and, if he remembered it correctly, even pounded Darcy's chest with his fists for a bit, although Darcy had used his longer arms to hold him at bay so that he had not been able to get in a really good punch.

Well, as it always did, Bingley's anger had burnt out quickly. Darcy had explained to him that he, Darcy, had felt ashamed at having raised such objections to Jane's family when, as it turned out, he had been quite willing to overlook those things when it came to himself. All of his other behavior had followed from those feelings of shame. Bingley understood _that_, at least. A man as proud as Darcy surely would struggle with such feelings in a way that Bingley himself never would. Why, he did and said embarrassing things, and admitted he had been wrong, all the time, and it hardly bothered him at all by now! But Darcy was not like that.

In any case, Bingley had reflected, was this entire episode worth losing his esteemed friend over? His friend who had given him so much and been so much to him for so many years? Darcy had apologized quite thoroughly and sincerely, and Bingley had seen that he really did regret his actions.

Well, one had to take the good with the bad in a dear old friend like Darcy. Perhaps there were aspects to his character that Bingley did not wish to emulate, after all. He wished that Darcy would join him in splashing about in the shallows from time to time, rather than always diving straight into the deep end while reciting sonnets or mumbling in ancient tongues. Not that there was anything wrong with the deep end, of course, just that it was rather, well, deep. Sometimes even those men in togas inhabiting Darcy's mind struggled to stay afloat.

Bingley had to admit that he felt somewhat flattered, maybe even honored, that Darcy had shared his heartache with him at last, even if it had largely been the cause of Bingley's own sadness. And in any case, Bingley now reflected, what did it matter, really? All's well that ends well. Here he was, back at Netherfield! And, armed with Darcy's assurances that, based on his own observation of Jane, she really did reciprocate his feelings, he had already proposed to her, and what was more, she had accepted! His beautiful, precious, kind, gentle angel had accepted him! What further obstacles remained to his total, utter, and complete happiness? None! None at all.

Well, at least two obstacles came to mind. The continued sweet malevolence of Caroline regarding his intentions to wed his Angel of Meryton. And the likely tension between Jane's sister and his best friend. Darcy was in love with Miss Elizabeth. Head over heels, heartbroken, desperate and hopeless. An astounding turn of events, really, that Darcy's heart finally had been touched and had been broken by his own angel's sister! No matter what Darcy had done to keep Bingley from his happiness, he, Charles Horatio Bingley, was now in a position to aid and advise his dearest friend, Fitzwilliam Tiberius Darcy. This opportunity to do such great good for his friend, to affect his life and counsel him on creating his own joy, was indeed rare and precious. He could not fail him...even though he remained a tad miffed that Darcy had not turned to him in his own hour, nay, months, of need. Well, he had done so now, more or less.

Bingley looked across the room at Darcy, still by the window. He had seen Darcy in so many moods this past year, from silent and still with contained fury to politely taciturn, from damply ebullient to painfully apologetic. Never, though, had he seen him so openly vulnerable. He was so happy for Bingley and Jane, and was trying so hard to hide his own melancholy. What a reversal of fortune! _Darcy _needed _his _advice on women, on love. Oh yes. He had to help, to listen and advise. After all, he was an engaged man, assured of the affections of a true angel. Perhaps he could play the go-between, talk to Jane and Elizabeth, and aid Darcy in some reconnaissance? Yes! That was what Archie would do!

Holding firm to this conviction, Bingley said with great assurance, "I am in love with the most perfect woman in the world, she is in love with me, and we are to be wed. And it is all due to you, Darce, my best friend, the best man in the world. I cannot bear to see you suffer so."

Bingley stood up and walked to his friend by the window. He put his arm around Darcy and patted his back. "Come, my friend. You have listened to me talk of my angel and our happily-ever-after. I know you are happy for us, but it must pain you, alone and broken as you are."

Darcy flinched and began shaking. My God, the man was not weeping, was he? No. Darcy would never, ever weep! That was the sort of thing Bingley did occasionally, such as last year when Caroline had slammed the door on his hand in a fit of pique, but never Darcy. He had not even shed a tear after he had been whipped by his father for one of Wickham's misdeeds involving a horse, a kitchen maid and a jar of gooseberry jam. Darcy must be in a very bad way indeed if he had been reduced to tears. Bingley pulled away from his friend and began apologizing. "Darcy, I mean no slight, but if you pine for Miss Elizabeth as I pined for Jane, then I must intercede and help you. Please, please do not cry."

The taller man pulled away and, to Bingley's surprise, chuckled bitterly, no tears in evidence at all. "Charles, I am not weeping. I am laughing, at myself and my own stupidity. I, who can read Greek and Latin, Italian and French, who can play the violin and quote Virgil and Shakespeare, and who have been master of my own estate since I was 22, am incompetent in understanding romance. I have spent my life running away from allurements and entanglements and entrapments and it has blinded me to the true worth and honest feelings of a good woman, like your Jane."

"Or your Elizabeth," Bingley observed.

Darcy was pacing the room now, running his hands through his thick hair and leaving it standing on end. "She is not mine, Charles," he sighed. "Is it just ladies named Bennet I cannot understand, or I have misread the intentions of every lady I have ever encountered at balls and assemblies and card parties?"

He stalked to the cabinet and poured himself another large serving of brandy. "I have endeavored to be better at it, but it is difficult to learn how to please a woman worthy of being pleased when I lack the intelligence to judge what is worthy and the words to tell her of her value, her immense and wonderful importance." Brandy bottle in hand, he slid into a chair. "It seems simple enough, but she is—she is not like other ladies. She is so much...better." He sipped his brandy and stared past Bingley at the sparsely lined bookshelves, a scandalous novel peeping out here and there from between books on coin collecting and animal husbandry. "She is perfect."

Bingley sat in the chair separated from Darcy's by a small table on which the brandy bottle now rested. He stroked his chin and contemplated Darcy's eyes. They were dark and confused, and his brow was furrowed. Tuffy the spaniel used to have that look whenever Caroline had dangled a bit of roast by his nose only to move it away, crying "Bad dog!" He had not been a bad dog, Bingley recalled. Only a bit deaf, a little slow and very sweet. God, Caroline was dreadful. She always had been. He could only pray she would never have children or come near her nieces and nephews. Oh! He would have to protect their children—his and Jane's babies—from her! Bingley suddenly felt overwhelmed and realized that he needed to make a list of all the vital points to remember now that he was to have a wife. He sighed. Jane...Perhaps she could help him write the list down, and then after that help him remember where he had put it. Wait...what was Darcy saying?

"Forgive me, Charles. I am unforgivably morose on this, your happy day." Darcy moved toward Bingley and filled his glass. "A toast to you and your angel."

Bingley took a long drink. Ahh, yes. Love did indeed make brandy taste better. Even the French label vintages brought here by Darcy. He poured himself just a bit more of the fine stuff.

"Charles, I am not hopeless. I actually feel there is a chance, albeit small, that Miss Elizabeth has softened somewhat in her feelings toward me. But I have misread her and misunderstood her so many times, I feel I must be cautious."

What was this? Darcy was holding onto some shred of hope? "What is it, Darce, which provides this small ray of sunshine in your heart?" Now, that was quite poetic, Bingley thought. Love makes us all poets. I shall write an ode to Jane! About love and walks in the meadow, and puppies and ginger cake! "There once was a young lady from Meryton..." he mumbled softly.

"Charles? Are you attending to the conversation?" Darcy asked. "I do not know how to act. My aunt—"

Bingley interrupted, "Lady Clarabel," and nodded sagely. He sat up a bit straighter, hoping such a posture made him look more attentive.

"—_Catherine_, Lady Catherine, in spite of all her hateful language, did give me reason to hope that Miss Elizabeth might still be willing to look favorably upon my suit. But I do not wish to importune her, to force her once again to reject me, if her feelings are still what they were in the spring."

In a small voice he went on, "And I do not know if I can bear it if she rejects me again." Ah, so that was it. This was, perhaps, yet another way in which he and Darcy differed, thought Bingley. He, Bingley, was used to being wrong, to being taken down a peg, to looking stupid. But Darcy was not. He was so very careful, careful to say just the right thing in the right way using the right words, careful to do precisely the correct thing lest he be misunderstood. That must be very difficult indeed, Bingley reflected. Much more difficult than for a clown like himself, even if, of course, sometimes his smiling visage hid pain or sadness. Jane, he thought, would know his feelings. They would sit together, speak not a word while enjoying their breakfasts or writing their letters, and she would know if he was happy or sad, frightened or worried. Oh, husbands must not be frightened. Cautious, perhaps. Damn, his mind had wandered again. He must reply to Darcy.

"Come, now, Darcy! I think you surely must try! I have seen nothing which would indicate she thinks ill of you."

"No, I suppose not. But before I went to London, neither did she offer much in the way of encouragement."

"Perhaps she is unsure of your feelings as well! How could she know that you love her so desperately, old man, when you stand about stupidly instead of speaking to her? You stare at her or look out the windows."

Why _does _Darcy always stare at walls and windows? Bingley wondered. Archie would never do that. He, Bingley, would never do that, either. It was dull to look at landscapes and he had never understood why anyone looked at stars just to point out his superior knowledge of their names. Icarus? No, Sirius. There, he knew the names of a few stars! Now, clouds. Those were another matter. They took on such amusing shapes; they did not all look like fluffy sheep, but, he reflected, he often saw fish and elephants and sausages when he gazed at them. Bingley wondered what it would feel like to ride a hot air balloon through the clouds. Did you feel them, could you grab bits and pieces and reshape them? He must ask Archie about that.

The clink of a bottle against his glass recalled Bingley to himself. Darcy had refilled their glasses and was watching his friend with an amused expression.

"What exactly did Lady Corinthian, er, Catherine say to Miss Elizabeth?" Bingley inquired, abashed at being caught out with his attention wandering. He was an engaged man, for God's sake. He must pay attention! And he thought he probably ought to remember something about this particular topic, as well, because after all, the entire Bennet household had been in a tizzy these past few days about the Lady's visit. They had all assumed that she had stopped by on her way to somewhere important to tell the family that that silly parson, Mr. Cuthbert, was it?, and his mousy wife were well. Although, come to think of it, perhaps there had been more to it than that, because Miss Elizabeth had certainly seemed rather tense after that lady had left. But when it came right down to it, he had not been paying much attention, because he had been busy gazing into Jane's eyes, eyes, eyes.

"The usual rubbish, of course." Darcy shrugged. "She knows no other manner of speaking."

"How did this ever make you feel more hopeful, then?"

With utter nonchalance, Darcy replied, "She simply reported that she had heard a rumor that, erm, Miss Elizabeth and I were engaged to be married, and that Miss Elizabeth had..."

"What?!" Bingley ejaculated. He awkwardly scooted his chair closer to Darcy's, the chair legs barking loudly on the wooden floor.

"...and that Miss Elizabeth had denied it, but refused to promise she never would become engaged to me. Naturally, Aunt Catherine was outraged."

"Naturally! Well, it is obvious, Darcy, Miss Elizabeth loves you." Bingley thought that really there was no use in disputing it.

"No, I—she may have merely enjoyed contradicting my aunt, who was very offensive to her indeed, I believe. Miss Elizabeth does love a good argument," he said with an admiring sigh.

"Yes, she does," Bingley said fondly, "not that I would ever dare to argue with her, as I already am outmatched by you...and I suspect Miss Elizabeth to have a far finer intellect than even you, my friend."

Darcy cracked a small smile. "Well, yes. She does spar and jab with great skill. Do you know what else she said, Charles? She told my aunt that any wife of mine would have so many sources of happiness that she would have no cause to repine.

"Could that mean what I hope it means?" he continued in a quiet voice.

"These Bennet sisters are an enigmatic pair, Darce. But I believe we both own the keys to their hearts." He said that he only _believed _it, but truly, Bingley was _sure _of it. Absolutely convinced.

"Maybe you have the right of it, Charles," Darcy sighed. He stretched out in his chair, looking thoughtful in a bleary sort of way.

"Our Miss Bennets are proof that angels walk the earth, Darcy."

The comment provoked a small smile and a sigh from the pining lover. "Charles, what is it about your Miss Bennet that first captured your heart?"

"Her smile. Her soft, sweet lips bestowed a most beautiful smile upon me when we danced at the Assembly. She wore such a kind-hearted expression, whether she looked at me, or her sisters, or even _my_ sisters! And then we walked together in Meryton, and she bent down to greet a child and her little puppy, and my heart was lost to my angel."

Darcy gazed upon Bingley's beatific face, aglow in the reverie of Cupid's perfectly aimed first arrow. Darcy nodded. "I saw her eyes, and I was lost."

"Excuse me?" Bingley cried indignantly. "Do you speak of Jane's eyes?"

"What? Of course not. Hers are a very nice shade of er, blue, but it is Elizabeth's green eyes that captivated and captured me. Their sparkle, their brightness, the deep intelligence and humour within them. I have never seen their like." Darcy rested his chin in his hand. "I would hope our children might have her eyes," he murmured to himself.

"Oh, I look forward to having a whole mob of children running up and down the stairs, rolling about on the rugs, and sitting in the bath," Bingley exclaimed. He looked at Darcy to expound on his dream. "With Jane's big blue eyes and sweet smiles. Well, not the boys, perhaps. I would prefer they be handsome, not pretty, with strong jaws and broad shoulders, and perhaps cleft chins."

His friend bit back whatever he planned to say and instead asked, "That seems possible, given that it runs in the family. From whom did Caroline inherit her cleft chin? Did your father have one?"

"Pardon?" gasped Bingley.

"Your sister has a small dimple in her chin. If she has one, then it is likely a family trait, as it is in mine."

Bingley shook his head. "My sister has no cleft chin, Darcy. That is a scar from a childhood incident. A battle, if you must know, between Caroline and our cousin, Emily, over Emily's china doll. Caroline, when eight years old, seized it and would not give it up. My cousin, though smaller, proved the value of having older brothers. A sharp left hook sent Caroline to the floor and she struck her chin on the bed post. She did not bleed much, though, considering all the screaming and the resultant damage. A loose tooth, a ruined frock, some bloodied books."

Darcy sat chuckling, enthralled by Bingley's childhood tale. "And their relationship after the brawl?"

"Caroline remains cowed by Emily, who is the quietest of our family and, I believe, quite the most intelligent. If she had not married her true love at 17, I would have thought her a good match for you." Bingley laughed. "Oh, imagine it! Ten years on, the two of them could have had another battle, pulling you about by _your _limbs!"

"Ahhh, drawn and quartered, trussed and served up," Darcy said drily. "I am happy such a fierce lady found her true love at so young an age. It has taken me much longer."

Bingley sprang up, and suddenly felt the effect of his four, or was it six?, glasses of brandy. Would Jane help regulate his intake of spirits or would she disapprove of them altogether and keep them under lock and key? He would not require port when he was rid of Caroline's constant, nagging presence, but he had been imbibing even without her in company. It was because of Darcy. His own heartache, and Darcy. And Darcy's heartache. Yes, his own heartache, Darcy's heartache, and Darcy, that was it. Well, that all seemed to be water under the bridge. His life was tied to Jane now, his heart and his future felicity settled. And it seemed to him that Darcy's might be as well. But first, he had an important request of his friend.

"Before I forget, Darcy, I do need to importune you. I know you and Miss Elizabeth have unfinished business, but I do wish for you to stand up with me on my wedding day, old man."

Darcy, looking startled yet pleased, nodded. "Nothing would please me more, Charles. I am overwhelmed that you and your betrothed can forgive my interference and accept me as a friend who wishes only for your greatest happiness.

"You are certain you do not wish for Hurst instead?" he asked wryly.

"The man is amusing but has no claims on my friendship beyond his marriage to my sister," Bingley replied. "You know of his lack of skill with a gun or sword. We likely should keep him away from any and all billiards tables as well. Pointed objects are not his friend."

The two men laughed and sighed, one content and one expectant. Bingley could not wait to get started on this grand new adventure! What was Darcy waiting for, anyway?

"All right, then, that is settled! I am to be married, and now it is your turn. Go to it, man!"

Bingley planted his feet a bit unsteadily and rubbed his hands together. "I have a plan! Just as you watched Jane to ascertain her feelings for me, I will watch Miss Elizabeth. Tomorrow, I will do reconnaissance, with Jane's assistance, while we all go for a walk. Perhaps, if things look promising for you, Jane and I will steal away into the shrubbery and leave you two alone."

Bingley, thinking of the opportunities for kissing which lay ahead through such a plan, recalled his need to ask Darcy once again about exactly where noses should be placed and where hands could safely roam during such kissing forays in the hedges. And were there thorny shrubs they should avoid? How did he judge Mr. Bennet as a protector? Would he stand in the way of their time spent alone in the hedges? On the other hand, should he, in fact, ask Darcy to be a judge of anyone, considering his recent record?

"Careful, my friend," said Darcy, gently nudging Bingley toward his chair. "You are weaving about like a thirst-crazed bantam cock."

"I am not thirst-crazed! Do not compare me to a cock!"

"Excuse me, Charles, for speaking poorly. You are not thirsty, nor are you a bantam cock. You are my best friend, I am your best man, and I am beyond pleased for you."

Darcy put the cork back into the nearly empty bottle of brandy. "You have a day full of happiness awaiting you tomorrow, and likely some wedding planning to discuss with Mrs. Bennet," he said, raising an eyebrow. "And I have a mission as well. To succeed, I must be at my best, my mind clear and sharp. To bed we must go."

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Bingley. "Tomorrow cannot come too soon." He stood and clapped his tall friend on the back. The two men shuffled a trifle unsteadily out of the room, making their way together toward the happy future each envisioned for himself, one already assured of its inevitability and the other daring to hope it might, one day soon, be within his reach.

**~End of Part IV~**

_If you think Bingley let Darcy off the hook too easily, or if you would like to share information about the heritability of cleft chins, please let us know by leaving a review._


	5. Part V: Amor vincit omnia

_And we have arrived at the greatly (and fearfully) anticipated Wedding Eve. Nerves are exposed, lessons are taught, tales are told, and well, we do feel it our duty to warn our dear readers to set aside their brandy and tea. It gets a bit, er, bawdy. If that offends you, please go search out the clean (rather duller) version elsewhere. Thanks to all of you for reading our little indulgence. _

**The Most Interesting Man in the World**

**Part V: Amor vincit omnia **

**(Love Conquers All)**

Tomorrow! thought Bingley. Tomorrow he would be a married man! He could not believe his luck. He firmly believed that he was, in fact, the luckiest man in the world, and he could not wait to begin his new life with his kind, gentle, loving, beautiful angel, Jane, the next day. Why were the hands of the clock moving so blasted slowly?!

He was ready to march into the church right now. Unfortunately, Bingley instead found himself in his drawing room at Netherfield, along with Darcy, Darcy's cousin Archie, and Hurst, looking for ways to pass the time until morning, when, at last, Bingley and his best friend would walk down the aisle together to wed the ladies of their dreams. Already, the Colonel, who had proved himself as free with a bottle of fine French brandy as any man Bingley had ever encountered, had refilled their glasses once, nay twice, all the while regaling them with stories about his scars and the great gumption shown by his men in fighting old Boney. But such conversation had dwindled in the face of other preoccupations. The two grooms lacked interest in tales of the battlefield, and, despite their having eaten a heavy meal not an hour earlier, Hurst was singlemindedly applying himself to an appreciation of the unexpectedly delightful treats laid out on the sideboard. Bingley looked away from his gluttonous brother of five years and turned his attentions to his brother-to-be. His best friend. His best man. Darcy.

Yes, he could tell that Darcy was nearly as excited as he, himself, was, although Darcy was doing pretty well at hiding it. But nothing could disguise the joy in his bright eyes, the glow of his manly cheeks, or the tiny smile that kept threatening to burst forth from the corners of his strong, firm mouth. Also, he kept whistling, catching himself doing so, and then beginning anew, all unawares, once his attention had been diverted elsewhere. Bingley thought the tune was either "Greensleeves" or "Barnacle Bill the Sailor," but he was not entirely sure which one. He was ecstatic to see his friend in such a state of happiness. Indeed, Bingley himself was positively jiggling in delight and anticipation.

But there were still many hours to wait before the wedding in the morning. Bingley doubted that either he or Darcy would sleep much, if at all, that night. The question therefore remained, how could they possibly pass all those annoying, snail-creeping, treacle-trickling, tick-tocking hours until dawn? But if they did not sleep, how would they stay awake and be, er, prepared for their wedding nights? It was a quandary.

As for how to pass the time, Darcy's cousin seemed to have some pretty firm ideas on that subject. Perhaps it was due to his military experience, but, as usual, they all included getting his friends thoroughly sloshed as quickly as possible. Hurst agreed that that was an excellent plan, as long as copious amounts of meat, cheese, ragouts, potatoes, rich sauces, sausages, cream soup, a fish or two, ices, and cakes were also involved. And some aperitifs. And also some snacks, such as nuts and sweetmeats, for afters. Bingley enjoyed a good meal, of course, but did not wish to gorge himself further this evening for two reasons: first, because he feared he might not fit into his snug waistcoat tomorrow if he did, and second, because there seemed to be butterflies or some other sort of flying creature resident in his stomach, banging about in a most unfamiliar way. It was dark in there, if he understood human anatomy correctly, so maybe not a butterfly. A small bat, then?

Ha ha, how absurd. There could not really be a bat flying about inside his stomach. Could there? No, not unless one had flown in when he had not been paying attention, dreaming about Jane with his mouth hanging open. It must be nerves. Although Bingley was deliriously happy about the upcoming nuptials, he realized that at the same time he still had some questions about tomorrow and the days and nights to follow. Quite a few questions. A great, massive, teetering, perilously high mountain of them, as a matter of fact. He hardly knew where to begin, really.

First, he had a number of questions about the physics and geometry of the wedding night. What went where, how, for how long, and that sort of thing. With one's own wife, that is. Bingley was a genius with geometry on the billiards table, but he felt somewhat at a loss when it came to geometry in the marital bed.

Second, he also had any number of other questions about modern languages and linguistics, namely, what was one supposed to say, if anything, to one's wife while engaging in, er, physics and geometry? He really was not sure. He also was not sure that this particular group of men was the right one to answer these questions. The Colonel—Archie, that is!—would doubtless have quite a bit to say on the topic, expert with the ladies that he was, but it seemed to Bingley that, all things considered, his advice might not be useful for a man and his new bride. For a single young man sporting at a French house, yes, but probably not for Bingley at this particular moment. Darcy would be of no use. Well, he might know something, but the stuffy old goat would never share whatever expertise he had gleaned from his own experiences, or, more likely, his damn books. Darcy's romantic adventures would remain an enigma, an unsolved mystery, and he would never know of them. Once he was a married man, Darcy certainly would never speak about conquests. No matter, it would likely involve too many odd languages. Tongues! Bingley giggled.

Jarred back to his senses by the sound, Bingley clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around the room. All was well. No one was looking at him. He stared over at Hurst. Gah, he truly, truly did not wish to hear what Hurst had to say on this subject. The thought of Hurst, Louisa and conjugal relations together in the same sentence was enough to make the bat in Bingley's stomach begin rocketing around like one of those hot air balloons after it had been hit by a cannonball. Or a mad flock of sharp-beaked crows...

Yet, he did need some answers. Would Darcy have packed a book or two? Would they have illustrations? Illustrations that would rid his mind of such unpleasant visions of his sister and her corpulent husband?

Well, here they all were, stuck in this infernal drawing room, with absolutely nothing to do but to wait and wait and wait. He might as well see if he could elicit some information of value from these fellows, poorly equipped or unwilling to act as his instructors as they might be.

Bingley realized that he had been pacing about like an incensed weasel, and decided that he was far more likely to get the serious intelligence he needed if he were sitting down and looking his fellows in the eye. He glanced about and chose the empty leather armchair closest to where Darcy was standing by the window. Bingley coughed to gain his friends' attention.

Darcy turned away from the window to look at him, just as Bingley had hoped he would. The Colonel, seated nearby at the hearthside, looked up from a button thread he had been worrying on the cuff of his fine red jacket. Hurst, on the other hand, could not be deterred from grazing at the groaning sideboard, where he was currently engaged in tearing the wings off of a goose with his bare hands.

"Well! Jolly fine evening, is it not?" Bingley asked, stalling. How on earth could he possibly begin this conversation? He cleared his throat, took a sip of brandy, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Darcy and the Colonel continued to look at him in puzzlement, whilst Hurst finished up his business with the goose and moved on to the pork aspic.

"Is something bothering you, Bingley? You look a bit flushed," asked Darcy.

Well, it was now or never, Bingley thought. He would never get a better opening than that, so he plunged right in, fixing his gaze at the ceiling so as to avoid looking his friends in the eye.

"I am not a child of the farmyard nor the son of a landowner. I know many of my peers learned their lessons about physical love from time spent with cows and horses and sheep and pigs and goats and..."

"Charles..." Darcy began.

"But I have only lived among my sisters. And dogs," he added, thinking of Tuffy the ancient, arthritic spaniel and his rather large harem. "I know little of nature's way beyond that. I would like some illumination." Bingley looked up and surveyed his potential instructors. Darcy and the Colonel appeared simultaneously confused, aghast and amused. Hurst just chewed more loudly.

"Drawings would be helpful."

At this, Hurst finally turned away from the sideboard to look at his brother sardonically, meat pie in hand.

Bingley took a deep breath and continued. "Well, it looks so painful and unpleasant with dogs, and there is considerable screeching and barking as a result. But I do not recall any pain, besides the biting, of course, in my own experience. Mademoiselle Angélique, you know," Bingley explained, to the other mens' horrified ears. What? Was it not customary to speak of the biting? Ah, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "But I have heard a maiden will feel pain and I fear I will hurt my dear Jane. She is so delicate.

"I do not wish to harm her," he said quietly. "Darcy? Some advice?"

Darcy, wide-eyed, shrugged. "I have never, not with a maiden." He swallowed and walked over to the windows. "Be gentle and slow and love her, Charles."

Bingley sighed. "But how? I have perused the _Kama Sutra_, you know, but found nothing useful in it." It had reminded him of an Ancient Greek athletics contest, full of naked bodies in unlikely positions.

The Colonel guffawed. "Then why do you ask for drawings and diagrams from us?"

Bingley cleared his throat and shot him an irritable glance. "I am not stupid. Those are the wild imaginings of the East Indies. Bodies do not bend in such ways. Anyone fool could see that." Good Lord, the Colonel could not honestly believe that a well-educated man such as himself would take that mad book seriously.

"Please, Archie. You are the most learned among us, are you not?" Bingley gave the Colonel his best ear-to-ear grin, the one which had always earned him a pat on the head from his grandpapa.

"Oh yes, Archie, pretty please," whined Hurst, sputtering with glee and spewing small bits of pastry on his waistcoat.

The Colonel groaned. "Darce, have you no friends with great and worldly experiences to whom you could have introduced this one?" he muttered, jerking a thumb in Bingley's direction. "Seriously, Darcy," he said quietly. "I think we just need to get him drunk."

"And what of me, Arch? You wish to bedevil me with a sore head on my wedding day? I am to be wed tomorrow as well."

"Yes, and thus you, too, must drink more. God knows you have hardly been the life of the party as the most eligible bachelor in town, so let us send you off with a grand salute!" Archie laughed gaily. "You are a bit nervous, as well. So many opportunities wasted, nose in your books while my brother and I charmed the ladies. So much you never attempted, so much you never enjoyed..."

Darcy sighed. "Fine. But I—please do talk to him. He is marrying Elizabeth's sister, after all."

Archie sighed and nodded reluctantly, before waving his hand high in the air and booming, "Bingley, I must have a pen and some paper! All will be revealed in due course!"

Bingley walked to the table in the corner, where he found some of Caroline's drawing paper and a few sticks of charcoal. "Will this do?" he asked the Colonel.

"Yes, yes, capital," Archie replied, taking the items from Bingley and shuffling through the pages of drawings, most of them studies of a broad-chested, curly-haired dwarf wearing a signet ring on his sausage-like finger. He barked out a laugh, but apparently thought better of teasing Darcy about the drawings, and turned to an unmarked page. He began to sketch, his giant mustache twitching in delight as he did so. "There are a number of possibilities, you see..."

Bingley stood behind Archie's chair and peered over his shoulder.

"This _here _can go _here_, best achieved from _this _angle like so...And this one _here_, drawing number two, as you see, can also be placed here. Not too hard, mind you!"

"Really? You cannot be serious!" Bingley could not help but exclaim.

Archie bent over the paper and expertly sketched a few more curved lines.

"But, but, ladies do not ride astride! They ride side-saddle," Bingley cried.

Hurst, who had drawn close and stood breathing rather heavily over the Colonel's shoulder, harrumphed. "I say, you have quite the talent with a charcoal. Such a likeness! Such emotion!"

The Colonel grinned proudly. "Thank you. I get quite a lot of practice during campaigns when there is not much to do between battles. Lots of idling about, you know. Art and so on," He finished another tableau with a flourish.

"Good Lord, Archie! That cannot be right!" cried Bingley. "Surely you are jesting with this one. I see, this whole affair is all one great joke, is it not?" he asked accusingly.

The three other men looked at the drawing with careful consideration. Darcy spoke first. "No, I believe that one, at least, is not merely the product of my cousin's fertile imagination. Not terribly likely, perhaps, but entirely possible."

The Colonel nodded. "Oh, yes, indeed. I have seen it done."

Bingley blushed, Hurst snickered, and Darcy protested, "Really, Archie. Please spare us the details of your exploits."

Archie laughed at his cousin's prudery. "I notice that in spite of your complaints, all three of you have rather flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. Shall I proceed?"

"Well, now, you know I do not care terribly for this kind of thing," said Darcy, inching a bit closer and looking at the sketches out of the corner of his eye.

Taking his lead, Bingley nodded and added, "No, nor do I. Please, feel free to stop any time." He, too, peered more closely at the paper.

"Oh, by all means, do go on," said Hurst jovially. "The beauty of the human form and all that." He rubbed his hands together expectantly and leaned in.

For nearly ten long minutes after the Colonel's diagrams had been thoroughly discussed and then burnt in the fireplace, not a word had passed the lips of any of the four men arrayed about the room, but the atmosphere was anything but sedate. The tapping of one man's foot, the clinking of the brandy bottle against an oft-emptied glass, the jingling of coin in a pocket and the pacing of boots across the oak floor created a rhythm silently observed by a patient hound curled up against the bookcase.

Finally, Bingley could not stand the silence any longer. He felt compelled to change the subject to anything, _anything_, other than the uncomfortable, rather improper things of which they had just spoken. Anything at all. He cleared his throat.

"Archie," said Bingley in a strangled voice. "I have been wondering about clouds."

The Colonel paused in his pacing and stared at Bingley. After a quick glance at a bemused Darcy, his hand now stilled and his pence at rest, he turned back to his inquisitor. "Yes, Bingley? Clouds?"

"Yes, well, I have been wondering about the shapes."

The Colonel slowly sank down on the ottoman in front of Bingley. "The shapes?" he drawled.

"Yes!" Bingley leaned forward and began gesturing, curving his hands into curlicues and swooping them up and down. "Yes, the clouds, have you ever leaned out of your hot air balloon and touched them and tried to mould them?" Bingley cried. "Like a god in the heavens?"

The colonel, his mouth agape, turned around and met his cousin's eyes. Darcy was of no help, too busy biting back a laugh. "Bingley," the Colonel sputtered, "I do not have knowledge of these subjects. I have never touched a cloud. I have never had the opportunity to ride in a hot air balloon." He stared at the younger man, bewilderment spread across his features.

Across the room, Hurst was chortling. "Methinks my brother has tippled a tad too much."

Bingley narrowed his eyes in perplexity, and then suddenly it dawned on him. Of course! He nodded sagely at his regimental friend. "Ahhh. Top secret missions, eh? Nothing you can tell us? Dash it all, it seems to me to be a romantic way to see the world. You are a fortunate man, my friend. And likely far safer from Boney's bullets. One cannot shoot upwards to reach such a fine apparatus, especially through those fluffy wet masses."

"Yes, it is a shame my learned cousin can share so much about the shape and feel of a woman, but cannot speak of the feel and contour of a fluffy wet mass," Darcy said slowly. "I thought you might know something of that as well." He stared dolefully at Archie, whose glare suddenly softened into an amused smirk.

"Ah yes. There is something else, Bingley, that I must share with you. Excuse me a moment." The mustachioed Colonel slipped out the door, returning a short time later stroking his chin and looking excessively serious.

"Bingley, did your father or your uncle—the one who took you to that French house that time?—ever speak to you of cautionary practices? Of the dangers of carnal knowledge with an unknown lady?"

Bingley shook his head from side to side. His eyes widened. "No," he whispered.

All eyes were on the Colonel as he began his tale of woe, of soldiers stricken by a love bug that shriveled their man parts, created oozing pustules, and crippled their limbs. He turned away from his gaping audience of Hurst and Bingley and winked at Darcy. "And this, Bingley," he roared, pantomiming a reach into his smallclothes while turning suddenly, and then thrusting his cupped hands toward the frightened man, "is what can happen to a man who looks for love in all the wrong places!"

Bingley screeched. Hurst gasped. Darcy slid down the wall and onto the floor, laughing uncontrollably. The Colonel dropped the cherry tart onto a plate and wiped his hands. He sat down in dramatic fashion and awaited the room's return to sanity.

Hurst was first. "Dammit, that was a fine-looking tart, Arch! It did not touch anything, did it?" He reached for the lovely little pastry, although he waited for the Colonel's negative reply, hand poised over the plate, before he picked it up and took a bite.

Darcy only laughed harder. As Bingley came back to himself, his heart pounding and his mind still reeling, he focused on Darcy's laughter. Was the man hysterical? With fright? And why did he not laugh like that more often? He had an attractive, musical laugh, in the baritone range, which truly was quite beguiling. He would make a note to ask Miss Elizabeth if she liked Darcy's laugh. He wondered what she thought of his cleft chin as well. She had likely touched it, lucky girl. Jane would like him to have a cleft, he was sure of it. Even one created through violent battle, like Caroline's. Perhaps he should ask her.

Wait, that reminded him! Talking! If they were to be touching, they had to be talking. Bingley recalled that bit of advice from an uncle, or some such relative. Oh! It was his bearded aunt, he now remembered, telling him to sit up straight, hold her hand and talk. Ah, Auntie Florabella. How Caroline hated her. How she hated Caroline. Bingley had enjoyed his aunt's visits, always the favorite little flaxen-haired lad, fearless and admiring of her beard. When you sit close and hold hands, Charlie, she had said, you must always have some conversation. Surely this must also hold true with other sorts of intimate contact. But what, precisely, must one say in such a circumstance? Certainly one must speak neither of one's arthritis and bunions, nor of one's digestive shortcomings, these having been his two major topics of discussion with Auntie. That did not seem right at all. What, then? He needed to know. It was all so very complicated. There were so many things he had to remember at the same time about how to please Jane: talking, kissing, touching...How could he possibly remember to do all these things at once? He worried that he might get carried away with one and forget the other two.

It had not been so complicated that one other time, with Mademoiselle Angélique. He shuddered, recalling how confused he had been about using his hands. One here? The other there? Or there? He had decided that the safest and speediest route to getting the event to its climax was to keep his hands to himself and simply enjoy the great pleasures she wrought with her hands and her tongue and her teeth. Well, perhaps not her teeth, he remembered. They had been so sharp, nibbling at his fleshy bits. He had not been able to think for the entire quarter hour he had been with her, but had recalled far, far too much of it afterward. Especially the teeth, so small and white and spiteful.

Bingley stood up, albeit shakily, and walked an uneven path to the sideboard. He poured a tall glass of brandy, downed half of it and returned to his seat. Smacking his lips, he stared straight at Darcy. "Thank your cousin for his exhibition, Darce. But now, I must ask you, the most learned among us, about, er, _dialogue_."

Darcy's reddened face slowly returned to a normal color and he took on a perplexed expression. "The Platonic dialogues? You ask me to speak of Sparta and the Greeks, Charles?" Bingley shook his head no. "Do you refer perhaps instead to the theatre? Do you wish me to recite dialogue from the Bard?"

"No, no! You know books, Darcy! You have read them all!" Bingley cried. "You know the epic poems and tales, _Le Morte d'Arthur_, Tristan and Isolde, Heloise and Abelard, the great courtly romances, all by heart! You must tell me the words, the poetry, shared by a man and his wife when they are engaged in...ahem...literary discourse." He sat up straighter and took a long drink. "I demand my share of your knowledge."

Darcy stared at him, all astonishment. "You ask this, of _me_? A man so inept in the art of wooing and courting he could not even properly propose, in a civil manner, the first time? A man who insulted and hurt and angered the woman he loved?"

The chomping noises which had kept them company for some minutes ceased as Hurst cried out, "What was that, now?" He carried his biscuit and duck confit with him as he slid into a nearby chair to give the conversation his full attention.

"He truly is no wordsmith, Bingley," averred the Colonel. "Though he pens a fine letter, I must say. All the family, and I include the future Mrs. Darcy in that group, enjoy his descriptive letters." Darcy skewered him with a fierce glower. "And fine penmanship. He must mend his pens quite often." He collapsed into a chair, chortling merrily.

Bingley shook his head in confusion and exclaimed, "Yet you wooed her, Darce! You won the heart of one of the most witty and intelligent ladies in the land. And now you two spar and laugh, your tongues twisting words into _bon mots_ which lead to some impassioned kissing, if I do say so myself."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I think you must _not _say, my friend. A gentleman never does."

Bingley flushed. He knew he should not have watched that afternoon in the garden, but he had been hoping for some pointers. He had seen glimpses of kisses and caresses, and the heated looks exchanged between the two lovers, but their words had been indecipherable. The birds had been too loud, the rustle of hands on fabric too distracting, the tension in his arm from holding down the branches so he could more clearly view the romantic scene too painful. But things had been said, words and cooings exchanged. He had heard Darcy moan, for goodness' sake! At first he had thought that Miss Elizabeth had pulled the poor man's hair and that he was crying out in pain, but in fact, shortly thereafter it had become clear that he had liked whatever it was she was doing to his neck. He was not clear if any biting had been involved; both parties had very white teeth, but he had never seen them bared.

So was that the secret? Cooing and sweet gentle murmurings? Teasing and tickling? He and Jane had kissed. Many times, in fact, over these past few weeks. But he had never dared to kiss her as, er, enthusiastically as he had seen Darcy kiss Miss Elizabeth. There had been neither moaning nor mewling between him and Jane. But their kisses still filled him with such a feeling of rightness, of warmth, of full and complete happiness. So, tomorrow night, yes. He would give it a try, the cooing and murmuring and teasing and so forth.

Oh. This was all so daunting. He needed more brandy. Especially with Darcy still glaring at him.

Despite the great man's somewhat justified irritation with him, Bingley was so, so glad that Darcy would, on the morrow, become his brother. And so much the better that it was not by means of Darcy's marrying Caroline! My God, how could that thought ever have crossed his mind? Damn brandy. Sweet nectar with the most damnable consequences.

Bingley need never fear that one day he would lose his friend's wise counsel. He should always have someone to ask when he had questions about poultry, or drainage, or financial instruments, or love. Well, perhaps not questions about love. Darcy had been right when he had said that he had some deficiencies with regard to speaking about love. And after all they had been through in the past year, and after this evening's conversation, Bingley thought that perhaps he might be better off relying on his own judgment in matters of the heart, more broadly speaking, as well. Take the entire sparring and jabbing fiasco, for instance. Or Darcy's ridiculous, ever-changing views on the importance of status and position in choosing a wife. Never! It was love, true love, that mattered! Ah, Jane, his angel.

Yes, Bingley might follow Darcy's advice about the cut of a waistcoat or proper fencing technique or other practical matters, but he was through with such queries when it came to love. Bingley was his own man now. A man about to become a husband! And, one day, a father, he hoped, truly the head of his own family, not just a hapless sheepdog nipping at the heels of his two vile sisters, two ewes running wild and trampling the garden. Baaah, baaah. He wished instead to become a truly accomplished shepherd for his family, with his lovely shepherdess by his side. He could imagine her blue eyes shining in the sunlight, her tall crook in hand, his own beautiful Bo Peep. With Jane beside him, there would never be any lost little lambs. Together they would fend off lamb-eating wolves. And his sisters.

Was the Colonel a magician? Bingley wondered. He could swear he had just drained the last drop from his glass, the last drop he had planned to swallow. All the better to keep his head for tomorrow. Why was his glass always full? Or had he forgotten to drink the last serving? Hmmm...

"I do hope that Caroline and Louisa will keep their spite and vitriol to themselves tomorrow, old man, but I fear the worst," Bingley said to Darcy with regret. "They are just dreadful. They always have been."

Darcy looked sharply at Hurst at this last, concerned that he might take offense at Bingley's words. Hurst waved him off, muttering, "No, no, he is quite right. Quite so.

"But she is my sweet pea, nonetheless," he sighed. Hurst closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and released an enormous belch. He opened one eye and glanced about at his audience. "You see, Louisa might indeed have a sharp tongue, but that is only when her sister is in the room."

Hearing Bingley scoff, Hurst sat up. "Bingley, think on this. Has Louisa ever been deliberately cruel to you, or has she simply withdrawn from a confrontation with her sister? My wife is a shy girl, who has been ever overshadowed by her quick-witted, ill-tempered sister and her brother, the flaxen-haired angel and only son."

"You have determined this over the past few years?" Bingley asked, stunned both by such an insightful revelation and by his sedentary brother's hitherto hidden skills of observation.

"Of course not, you dolt. She told me. Tells me every chance she gets, and then I kiss her to make it all better." Hurst smiled like the cat who ate the canary. "It is the precursor to many an enjoyable evening, I must tell you."

"No!" cried two voices. "Do not tell us!"

The shrieking grooms busied themselves with various business involving brandy and observations about the stars peeking through the clouds.

Archie chuckled. "Boys, you two are on the threshold of marital paradise. Both of you are men who will be true and constant to your wives. I raise a toast to years of connubial bliss, for you all," he added, nodding in Hurst's direction. "May you two soon find your own harbingers of evenings full of delight..."

Hurst rose and adjusted his coat. "As the room's sole married man, I will beg pardon and go listen to my dear wife's complaints. I am sure," he added, nodding in Darcy's direction, "that she has had a most trying evening with her sister. I fear her gown may be soaked through with crocodile tears." He winked at Bingley and smiled in what Bingley thought a most salacious manner. Salacious meant hungry, he thought, and it was not possible for Hurst still to be hungry, was it?

Darcy looked aghast as his cousin began, in answer to Hurst's words, to recite iambic pentameter, his great mustache quivering with emotion. "O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight!"

"For God's sake, Archie! Othello? Shut it," snapped Darcy.

Bingley looked anxiously at Hurst. He was not planning to kill Louisa, was he? That seemed unlikely, given his earlier comment about, er, enjoyable evenings with her. But then, who would have guessed that Othello would kill Desdemona, either? Well, actually, anyone with half a brain in his head could have seen that one coming from Act I, he supposed. Of course it had been an utter surprise to him, though admittedly his attention had been diverted by the lovely young lady in the adjacent box at the time. In any case, he would much rather think about happier occasions, such as weddings, for example. Quickly, which of the other Shakespeare plays had a wedding in it? Oh! Romeo and Juliet! Wait, no, that was hardly much of an improvement over Othello.

Er, the one with the shrew for a wife? Lots of yelling until they kissed. That seemed familiar, a bit like Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, he gasped. Except, of course, that Darcy did not want his future wife to be tamed. No, not at all, if he was to be believed about all that sparring and jousting and jabbing. Not to mention the rustling in the shrubbery! Miss Elizabeth had free reign over the man's neck, it seemed! His cravat was perpetually askew these days. He wondered if Mr. or Mrs. Bennet had noticed their daughters' swollen lips and ruffled hair whenever they returned from a stroll in the gardens with their fiancés. Jane had especially soft, silken hair. He would never say a word about it to Darcy, but he thought Jane's blond tresses superior to the oft-tangled dark waves sported by his friend's Miss Elizabeth. Often, there were bits of leaves and stalks of grass stuck in her thick locks. He could not imagine what Caroline would say, if she chanced to observe her. Well, actually, he supposed he could imagine it well enough.

Anyway, there was much to admire about Miss Elizabeth, as she too was an angel in her own way. But no one could compare to his Jane. Bingley realized he must be careful never to voice such feelings aloud. It would surely lead to a duel with his best friend. How awful that would be. Darcy had Archie. Who would be his, Bingley's, second? Hurst? My only person Bingley ever wanted as his second was Darcy, and that would be impossible if the two of them were shooting at one another. This would never do.

The slamming of the door upon Hurst's exit brought Bingley back to himself. When he looked over at his friend, he noticed that Darcy was still looking upset about something. Good Lord, it was as if he had read Bingley's mind just now! He must stop thinking these terrible thoughts, or there really would be a duel one day. He must change the subject right away, or before he knew it he would be facing Darcy with pistols at dawn! And on their wedding day, no less! And Jane would cry, indeed; though not as a bride, yet neither as a widow. Crocodile tears would flood the streets of Meryton, creating little biting lizards that would swarm the town! Although he thought that perhaps he was a bit unclear, still, on the meaning of that phrase, crocodile tears. He never could understand Shakespeare. Except sometimes the comedies. Was not the shrewy one, wherein she was tamed by a strong man, a comedy? He glanced once more at Darcy and found the man staring thunderously at his cousin.

"Honestly, Archie. Othello on the eve of a wedding?" Darcy huffed.

"Sorry, old man," smirked Archie.

Oh, yes. Quickly! thought Bingley. Change the subject!

"Darcy!" he said. "Another brandy? Another toast to our brotherhood?"

"I think not," replied Darcy. "I believe I had best go to my chambers. I have a poem I would like to read. Something a bit more in the spirit of the day," he said, looking pointedly at the Colonel.

Archie rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what that lively Miss Elizabeth sees in my stuffy cousin. Though I am glad she does indeed see his finer points, and hones his duller bits." He burst out in unrestrained laughter. Perhaps it was the herky-jerky motions of his mustache, or perhaps the boisterous knee-slapping, but soon both Darcy and Bingley were chuckling along.

"I have no dull points, cousin," Darcy gasped. "I am, however, more keenly sharpened and fully witted when I am with her."

He lapsed into a dreamy state signaled by the toothy grin Bingley had grown to admire.

Bingley sat gazing fondly at his friend. He truly was the best of men, Darcy was. Bingley's very best friend. No, he was not perfect, as Bingley had once thought. He had a brilliant mind, he was the best master to his dependents, the best brother, the most loyal companion, the most accomplished sportsman, and was furthermore the owner of the broadest shoulders and the best seat Bingley had ever seen. Not to mention his handsome face and, of course, his magnificent cleft chin. But he was also a very proud man, perhaps a bit too proud, even if it was mostly well-justified. Miss Elizabeth seemed to have worked wonders in curbing that tendency, though. And he did seem to have some funny ideas about position and status, and about love. Although again Miss Elizabeth did seem to be having a most salutary effect there, as well. My goodness, she was just what Darcy needed to become the paragon Bingley had thought him all those years! How splendid.

Bingley had to admit now that he had secretly been a bit jealous of Miss Elizabeth for a while there. But that was all in the past, now that he had his Jane to love. What would be the point in feeling jealous about losing Darcy's attention when he, Bingley, had everything he had ever wanted in the world right here in his wonderful, kind, gentle, loving, and, yes, beautiful, Jane? She never had twigs in her hair, her slippers were always clean, her hands soft, and she smelled of lovely things, like rosewater and lilacs. In November!

Bingley looked over at Darcy and noticed that he was still gazing off into space with a besotted smile on his face. He wondered whether that was how he, Bingley, often appeared to others. Probably not. He hid his little flights of fancy rather well, he thought.

Presently Archie stopped laughing at his two friends long enough to stand and walk to his cousin, whom he slapped on the shoulder. "Well, old man. You are obviously of no further use to me this evening. Off with you! Go off to your bloody musings and prepare in solitude to enter the bonds of matrimony!"

Darcy shook himself out of his dreamy state long enough to scowl, "Shut it, Archie. They are hardly bonds! Unless they are the gentle bonds of felicity, the joyous chains of love."

Archie smirked, "Certainly, if you find that sort of thing appealing. Somehow I had thought your interests ran in a different direction."

"You are incorrigible! I cannot stand this another moment." Darcy stood up, looked about the room and nodded as if coming to a decision. He walked over to Bingley and grasped his hand for a moment before pulling him into a brief hug. Bingley pounded his back in return, too moved to speak.

"Charles, we are to be brothers, and nothing could make me happier than to forge that connection," Darcy said. He pulled back and smiled. "Nothing, of course, besides marrying Elizabeth. We shall be the happiest of men, the best of brothers, and the worthiest of husbands."

Bingley and Archie stood wordlessly as Darcy's voice dropped to a whisper. "We have lost our parents, so we will forge new families and new bonds. Together. My parents, and yours, would be so pleased with our brides."

Darcy gave the two men an intense look. "I thank you both for your friendship, your advice, and of course, your companionship on these many evenings." Bingley was still too overcome with feeling to say anything, so he nodded vigorously at his friend.

Darcy turned and walked toward the doorway. "I hope you have found fair recompense in drinking and spilling my fine brandy. I consider it all a fine trade." He turned around, grinning at the guffaws from the two men.

"And now, I am off to think on a pair of fine eyes and get some sleep. I wish to have the sense and keen wit to appreciate my bride tomorrow."

"And not stumble with your vows," cried Archie to Darcy's retreating back. He stroked his mustache and turned a sharp eye on Bingley. "My cousin was clearly a lost cause. You, however, still exhibit rather a lot of potential in the area of drinking deeply and with great meaning." He raised the glass of brandy in salute and sauntered toward Bingley.

Bingley recoiled. "No, no indeed, I thank you, no, Archie! I believe I have had enough brandy for this evening, and in fact I do not believe I shall ever touch brandy again after tonight." Now he understood better how a deer felt when looking up the barrel of a gun. Poor, poor deer.

"One last drink as a single man..." Archie said with a wolfish smile. He shoved a glass in Bingley's hand and put an arm around his shoulders. "Bingley, you seem in need of wise counsel. I would like to share a bit of advice with you."

What happened next was never clear to Bingley. In years to come, the events of that night and others spent with Darcy and Archie enjoying libations as bachelors ran together in his mind, all reduced to fleeting images of genies on magic carpets, hot air balloons, fluffy sheep-like clouds, bats careening around in his abdomen, mortally wounded billiards tables, and, of course, brandy. Copious amounts of brandy. There were also new, inexplicable images of himself swordfighting in a mirror and an extremely menacing rabbit with blood dripping from its fangs. But he was never sure whether those things had truly happened or not. Bingley was certain only that he would never again eat cherry tarts or drink more than one glass of brandy. It was all quite a blur, like Latin class or mathematics. In fact, the next moment in time that Bingley could clearly remember after Archie had handed him that last glass of spirits was the instant Darcy had patted his shoulder, assured him that the Netherfield staff had cleaned up the mess and removed the stains, and nodded at him to direct his attention to their brides approaching them down the aisle.

Oh. Oh! The soon-to-be-former Bennet sisters were indeed the Angels of Meryton. God help him, and Darcy, to be the men that these angels deserved. Mortal men, married to angels. Jane would be the making of him, he realized. He gulped, took a deep breath and glanced at Darcy. His friend's eyes glowed fiercely at his bride— they were even a bit suspiciously bright and shiny—but there was not so much as a quiver in his cleft chin. How very interesting. How very Darcy.

**~The End~**

_That's it, the end. There is no more. Volunteers to be Bingley's second, and anyone who would like to let us know how he or she enjoyed the hot air balloon ride, please leave us one final review._


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